Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull.
What power is it which mounts my love so high;
[That] makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?
[The mightiest space] in fortune nature brings
To join like likes and kiss like native things.
Impossible be strange attempts to those
That weigh their pains in sense, and do suppose
What [hath been cannot be]: who ever strove
To show her merit, that did miss her love?
[The king's disease—]my project may deceive me,