Woe, having made with many fights his own <br />Each sense of mine; each gift, each power of mind <br />Grown now his slaves, he forc'd them out to find <br />The thoroughest words, fit for Woe's self to groan, <br /> <br />Hoping that when they might find Stella alone, <br />Before she could prepare to be unkind, <br />Her soul, arm'd but with such a dainty rind, <br />Should soon be pierc'd with sharpness of the moan. <br /> <br />She heard my plaints, and did not only hear, <br />But them (so sweet is she) most sweetly sing, <br />With that fair breast making woe's darkness clear: <br /> <br />A pretty case! I hoped her to bring <br />To feel my griefs, and she with face and voice <br />So sweets my pains, that my pains me rejoice.<br /><br />Sir Philip Sidney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-57-woe-having-made-with-many-fights/
