The Delia Sonnets

by Samuel Daniel

XIII

Behold what hap Pygmalion had to frame
  And carve his proper grief upon a stone:
  My heavy fortune is much like the same,
  I work on flint, and that's the cause I moan.
For hapless lo, even with mine own desires
  I figured on the table of my heart
  The fairest form the worldës eye admires,
  And so did perish by my proper art.
And still I toil, to change the marble breast
  Of her, whose sweetest grace I do adore:
  Yet cannot find her breathe unto my rest.
  Hard is her heart and woe is me therefore.
O happy he that joy'd his stone and art!
Unhappy I to love a stony heart!


Next: Sonnet XIV


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