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 thorough'st 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 she is) 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE LEAVES by HAYDEN CARRUTH EVENING SONG OF THE TYROLESE PEASANTS by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS SONNET: 35 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT by HELEN SELINA SHERIDAN THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE: CANTO 1 by JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748) |