Doubt there hath beene, when with his golden chaine
The Orator so farre mens harts doth bind:
That no pace els their guided steps can find;
But as in them more shorte or slacke doth raine.
Whether with words this sou’raigntte be gaine,
Clothde with fine tropes with strongest reason lin’d,
Or els pronouncing grace, wherewith his minde
Prints his owne lively forme, in rudest braine.
Now judge by this, in pearcing phrases late
Th’ Anatomie of all my woes I wrate,
Stellas sweete breath the same to me did reede.
Oh voyce, oh face mauger my speeches might,
With wooed woe, most ravishing delight,
Even in sad mee a joy to me did breede.