Give to a gracious message a host of tongues, but let ill tidings tell themselves when they be felt.

I understand a fury in your words
But not your words.

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!