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.