be here at night. Go. I’ll to my ghostly confessor. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Let me have A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear As will disperse itself 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 life I charge thee in the secret night. Farewell, be trusty, and I’ll stay the circumstance. Let me