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