O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death!

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

Now my charms are all o'erthrown.

The rest, is silence.

In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night doth take away Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. -Sonnet 73

Hold, or cut bowstrings.

Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.