Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,Which we ascribe to heaven. The fated skyGives us free scope, only doth backward pullOur slow designs when we ourselves are dull.What power is it which mounts my love so high,That makes me see, and cannot feed my eye?The mightiest space in fortune Nature bringsTo join like likes and kiss like native things.Impossible be strange attempts to thoseThat weigh their pains in sense and do supposeWhat hath been cannot be. Whoever stroveTo show her merit that did miss her love?
All's Well that Ends Well (excerpts): Our remedies oft in ourselves do liewritten by
© William Shakespeare