hath set 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 With speedy help doth lend redress.’ [_Exit._] FIRST MUSICIAN. And you be he, sir, I do remember an apothecary,— And hereabouts he dwells,—which late I noted In tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of simples, meagre were his