O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars

The treasury of everlasting joy.

I am not that feather to shake offMy friend when he must need me.

Thou canst not say I did it: never shakeThy gory locks at me.

When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.

Provoke/ The years to bring the inevitable yoke.