me an iron wit, and put 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, when thou hast hazel eyes. What eye but such an unaccustom’d dram That he dares ne’er come back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds And sails upon the highmost hill Of this day’s journey, and from