Muses, I oft invoked your whole ayde, With choisest flowres, my speech t’engarland so, That it disguisde, in true (but naked) show, Might winne some grace in your sweet skill arraide; And oft whole troupes of saddest words I stayde, Striving abroade, a forraging to goe, Untill by your inspiring I might know, How their blacke banners might be best displaid. But now I meane no more your helpe to trye. Nor other sugering of speech to prove, But on _her_ name uncessantly to cry. For let me but name _her_ whom I doe love, So sweete sounde straight my eares and hart doe hit, That I well finde no eloquence like it. Woe having made with many sighs his owne Each sense of mine; each gift, each power of minde Growne now his slaves, 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 unkind, _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 is _she_, most sweetly sing, With that faire brest, making Woes darknes cleere, A prittie case I hoped her to bring, To feele my griefe, and she with face and voice, So sweetes my paines, that my paines me rejoyce. Doubt there hath beene, when with his golden chaine The Orator so farre mens harts doth bind: That no pace els their guided steps can find; But as in them more shorte or slacke doth raine. Whether with words this sou’raigntte be gaine, Clothde with fine tropes with strongest reason lin’d, Or els pronouncing grace, wherewith his minde Prints his owne lively forme, in rudest braine. Now judge by this, in pearcing phrases late Th’ 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 woe, most ravishing delight, Even in sad mee a joy to me did breede. Deere, why make you more of a dogge than me? If he doe love, alas I burne in love; If he waite well, I never thence would move; If he be faire, yet but a dogge can be; Little he is, so little worth is he: He barkes, my songs thyne owne voyce oft doth prove; Bidden, (perhaps) he fetcheth _thee_ a glove? But I unbid, fetch even my soule to _thee_ Yet while I languish, him that bosome clips, That lap doth lap, nay lets in spight of spight This sour-breath’d mate tast of those sugred lips; Alas, if _you_ graunt onely such delight To witles things, then Love I hope, (since wit Becomes a clogge) will soone ease me of it.