The Delia Sonnets

by Samuel Daniel


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 that the world's 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 joyed his stone and art!
Unhappy I, to love a stony heart!

Next: Sonnet XIV

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