Astrophil and Stella

Sonnet 57

Who having made, with many fights, his own 
   Each sense of mine, each gift, each pow'r of mind; 
   Grown now his slaves, he forst them out to find 
The thorowest words fit for woe's self to groan, 
Hoping that when they might find Stella alone, 
   Before she could prepare to be unkind, 
   Her Soul, armed but with such a dainty rind, 
Should soon be pierced with sharpness of the moan. 
   She heard my plaints, and did not only hear, 
But them, so sweet is she, most sweetly sing, 
With that fair breast making woe's darkness clear. 
A pretty case; I hoped her to bring 
   To feel my grief; and she, with face and voice, 
   So sweets my pains that my pains me rejoice.  
Sir Philip Sidney

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