Sonnet 13 -

Behold what hap Pigmalion had to frame
And carve his propper griefe upon a stone:
My heavie fortune is much like the same;
I worke on Flint, and that's the cause I mone.
For haplesse loe, even 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 unto my rest;
Hard is her hart and woe is me therefore
O happie he that joy'd his stone and arte;
Unhappy I, to love a stony harte.
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