Behold what happe Pigmaleon had to frame,
And carue his proper griefe vpon a stone:
My heauie fortune is much like the same,
I worke on Flint, and that’s the cause I mone.
For haples loe euen with mine owne desires,
I figured on the table of my harte,
The fayrest forme, the worldes eye admires,
And so did perish by my proper arte.
And still I toile, to chaunge the marble brest
Of her, whose sweetest grace I doe adore:
Yet cannot finde her breathe vnto my rest,
Hard is her hart and woe is me therefore.
O happie he that ioy’d his stone and arte,
Vnhappy I to loue a stony harte.