Woe having made with many sighs his owne
Each sense of mine; each gift, each power of minde
Growne now his slaves, he forst them out to finde
The throwest words, fit for woes selfe to grone
Hoping that when they might finde Stella alone,
Before she could prepare to be unkind,
Her soule (armed with such a daintie rinde,)
Should soone be hurt with sharpnes of the mone.
She heard my plaints, and did not onely heare.
But them, so sweet is she, most sweetly sing,
With that faire brest, making Woes darknes cleere,
A prittie case I hoped her to bring,
To feele my griefe, and she with face and voice,
So sweetes my paines, that my paines me rejoyce.