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 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!