Sonnet 56

WOe hauing made with many sighs his owne
Each sence of mine; each gift, each power of minde
Growne now his slaues, 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 vnkind,
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, she did most sweetly sing,
With that faire brest, making Woes darknes cleere,
My priuie cares I holpe to her to bring,
To tell my griefe, and she with face and voice,
So sweetes my paines, that my paines me reioyce.