Sonnet XIII Behold What Hap

Behold what hap Pygmalion had to frame And carve his proper grief upon a stone;

My heavy fortune is much like the same:

I work on flint, and that's the cause I moan.

For hapless, lo, ev'n with mine own desires,

I figur'd on the table of my heart The fairest form, the world's eye admires,

And so did perish by my proper art.

And still I toil, to change the marble breast Of her, whose sweetest grace I do adore,

Yet cannot find her breath unto my rest:

Hard is her heart, and woe is me, therefore.

O happy he that joy'd his stone and art,

Unhappy I to love a stony heart.