Sonnet 57

DOubt there hath beene, when with his golden chaine
The Orator so farre mens harts doth bind:
That no place els their giddie steps could find;
But as he them more slacker short did raine,
Whether with words his sou'raigntie he gaine,
Clothed with fine tropes as his strongest linde,
Or els pronouncing grace, wherewith his minde
Prints his owne forme liuely, in rudest braine.
Now iudge by this, in pearcing phrases late
The 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 words, most rauishing delight,
Euen those sad words a ioy to me did breede.