Astrophil and Stella, Sonnet 57

Woe, having made with many fights his own
      Each sense of mine; each gift, each power of mind
      Grown now his slaves, he forced 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, 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 griefs, and she with face and voice
      So sweets my pains, that my pains me rejoice.