That her grace gracious makes thy wrongs, that shee,
What word so ere shee speakes, perswades for thee:
That her cleere voice, lifts thy fame to the skyes.
Thou countest Stella thine, like those whose powres
Having got up a breach; (by fighting well)
Cry victorie, this faire day all is ours:
Oh no, her heart is such a Cytadell.
So fortified with wit, stor’d with disdaine:
That to winne it, is all the skill and paine.
Phœbus was Judge, betweene Jove, Mars, & love,