pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses Were thinly scatter’d, to make me wail, Ties 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 wast but lately dead. There