Delia: Sonnet 13

BEhold what hap Pigmalion had to frame,
And carue his propper griefe vpon a stone,
My heauy fortune is much like the same,
I worke on Flint, and that's the cause I mone.
For haplesse loe euen with mine owne desires,
I figured on the Table of mine hart,
The fairest forme, that all the world admires,
And so did perrish by my proper arte.
And still I toyle, to change the Marble breast
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 happy he that ioy'd his stone and arte,
Vnhappy I to loue a stony hart.