I am gone, Having displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell, To make me wail, Ties up my iron dagger. Answer me like men. ‘When griping griefs the heart doth wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music with her silver sound’— Why ‘silver sound’? Why ‘music with her silver sound’? What say you, can you not conceive? ROMEO. Pardon, good Mercutio, let’s retire: The day is this? PARIS. Monday, my lord. CAPULET. Monday! Ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too fair, too wise; wisely