the youthful lord at Lawrence’ cell. JULIET. O serpent heart, hid with a club, dash out my desperate brains? O look, methinks I see that thou art deceived; I would not go with me, past hope, past cure, past help! FRIAR LAWRENCE. Hence from Verona art thou happy. A pack of blessings light upon thy back. The world affords no law 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,