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 LVIII.

Doubt there hath been—when, with his golden chain, The Orator so far men's hearts doth bind; That no pace else their guided steps can find, But as he them more short or slack doth rein— Whether with words, this sovereignty he gain; Clothed with fine tropes, with strongest reasons lined: Or else pronouncing grace, wherewith his mind Prints his own lively form in rudest brain? Now judge by this. In piercing phrases, late, The anatomy of all my woes I wrote. STELLA'S sweet breath the same to me did read. O voice! O face! maugre my speeches' might Which wooed woe: most ravishing delight, Even those sad words, even in sad me, did breed.

LIX.

Dear! Why make you more of a dog, than me? If he do love; I burn, I burn in love! If he wait well; I never thence would move! If he be fair; yet but a dog can be. Little he is, so little worth is he. He barks; my songs, thine own voice oft doth prove. Bidden perhaps, he fetcheth thee a glove; But I unbid, fetch even my soul to thee! Yet while I languish; him, that bosom clips, That lap doth lap, nay, lets in spite of spite, This sour-breathed mate taste of those sugared lips. Alas, if you grant only such delight To witless things; then LOVE I hope (since wit Becomes a clog) will soon ease me of it.