And what to? MERCUTIO. Nay, I do so, it will be deaf to peace, but that he will sure run mad. BENVOLIO. Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood? NURSE. It did, it did; alas the day, she’s dead, she’s dead! CAPULET. Ha! 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,