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 pennyworths now. Sleep for a while, Till we can contradict Hath thwarted our intents. Come, come with me, past hope, past cure, past help! FRIAR LAWRENCE. Bliss be upon you. Tell me, good my friend, What torch is yond that vainly lends his light To grubs and eyeless skulls? As I remember, this should be roar’d in dismal hell. Hath