Astrophel and Stella: 57

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Wo, hauing made with many fights his owneEach sense of mine, each gift, each power of mind,Growne now his slaues, he forst them out to findThe thorowest words, fit for woes selfe to grone,Hoping that when they might find Stella alone,Before she could prepare to be vnkind,Her soule arm'd but with such a dainty rind,Should soone be pierc'd with sharpnesse of the mone.She heard my plaints, and did not only heare,But then (so sweete is she) most sweetly sing,With that faire breast making woes darknesse cleare:A prety case I hoped her to bringTo feele my griefes, and she with face and voice,So sweets my paines, that my paines me rejoice.

© Sir Philip Sidney