Sonnet VIII: Harde are the rockes, the marble, and

Harde are the rockes, the marble, and the steele,
The auncient oake, with wind, and weather tost,
But you my love, farre harder doe I feele,
Then flinte, or these, or is the winters frost.
My teares too weake, your heart they can not moove,
My sighes, that rocke, like wind it cannot rent,
Too Tyger-like you sweare, you cannot love:
But teares, and sighes, you fruitlesse backe have sent.
The frost too hard, not melted with my flame,
I Cynders am, and yet you feele no heate:
Surpasse not these (sweet love) for verie shame,
But let my teares, my vowes, my sighes, entreat,
Then shall I say, as I by triall finde:
These all are hard, but you (my love) are kind.