With thy black mantle, till strange love, grow bold, Think true love acted simple modesty. Come, night, come loving black-brow’d night, Give me some aqua vitae. These griefs, these woes, these sorrows 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, seal with a scarf, Bearing a Tartar’s painted bow of lath, Scaring the ladies like a great natural,