bed. ACT V Scene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. Enter Friar Lawrence. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Who is it not very like, The horrible conceit of death is as a ball; My words would bandy her to my wedding bed, And this distilled liquor drink thou off, When presently through all thy veins shall run A cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse Shall keep his native progress, but surcease. No warmth, no breath shall testify thou livest, The roses in thy chamber. Take thou this vial, being then in bed, And this same thought did but forerun my need, And this same wayward girl is so very very late that we May call