LVII. Woe, having made with many fights his own

Sir Philip Sidney (1554–1586)

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.