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Philip Sidney - Sonnet 57: Woe, Having Made With Many Fights
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Woe, having made with many fights his own 
Each sense of mine; each gift, each power of mind 
Grown now his slaves, he forc`d them out to find 
The thoroughest 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, arm`d but with such a dainty rind, 
Should soon be pierc`d 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 griefs, and she with face and voice 
So sweets my pains, that my pains me rejoice.
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