Doubt there hath been, when with his golden chain
The Orator so far men's hearts doth bind,
That no place else their guided steps can find,
But as he them more short or slack doth rein,

Whether with words this sovereignty he gain,
Cloth'd with fine tropes, with strongest reasons lin'd,
Or else pronouncing grace, wherewith his mind
Prints his own lively form in rudest brain:

Now judge by this, in piercing phrases late,
Th'anatomy of all my woes I wrate;
Stella's sweet breath the same to me did read.

Oh voice, oh face! maugre my speech's might,
Which wooed woe, most ravishing delight
E'en those sad words, e'en in sad me did breed.