Hard are the rocks, the marble, and the steel, 
The ancient oak with wind and weather tossed; 
But you, my love, far harder do I feel 
Than flint, or these, or is the winter's frost. 
My tears too weak, your heart they cannot move; 
My sighs, that rock, like wind it cannot rent; 
Too tiger-like you swear you cannot love; 
But tears and sighs you fruitless back have sent. 
The frost too hard, not melted with my flame, 
I cinders am, and yet you feel no heat. 
Surpass not these, sweet love, for very shame, 
But let my tears, my vows, my sighs entreat; 
Then shall I say as I by trial find; 
These all are hard, but you, my love, are kind.