Sonnet 57: Woe, Having Made With Many Fights

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.