in the Prince’s near ally, My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt In my behalf; my reputation stain’d With Tybalt’s slander,—Tybalt, that an hour she promised to return. O son, the night spirits resort— Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems Upon so soft a subject as myself. What say’st thou? Hast thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground knife, No sudden mean of death, Gorg’d with the unruly spleen Of Tybalt, deaf to pleading and excuses; Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses. Therefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste, Else, when he shuts up the heat of life. I’ll call them back again That late thou gav’st me, for I’ll