Sonnet 71.

BEhold what hap Pigmalion had to frame,
And carue his griefe himselfe vpon a stone;
My heauie fortune is much like the same,
I worke on flint and that's the cause I mone.

For haplesse lo euen with mine owne desires,
I figured on the table of my hart
The goodliest shape that the worlds eye admires,
And so did perish by my proper arte.

And still I toyle to change the Marble brest
Of her, whose sweete Idea I addore,
Yet cannot finde her breath vnto my rest,
Hard is her heart, and woe is me therefore.
O blessed he that ioyes his stone and arte,
Vnhappie I to loue a stonie harte.