Parting is such sweet sorrow

So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.

The violence of either grief or joy, their own enactures with themselves destroy.

Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight

The king is but a man, as I am; the violet smells to him as it doth to me; the element shows to him as it doth to me; all his senses have but human conditions; his ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man; and though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing.

Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.

On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily.