Classic Poem

The paynefull smith with force of fervent heat,
The hardest yron soone doth mollify:
That with his heavy sledge he can it beat,
And fashion to what he it list apply.
Yet cannot all these flames in which I fry,
Her hart more harde then yron soft awhit:
Ne all the playnts and prayers with which I
Doe beat on th'andvyle of her stubberne wit:
But still the more she fervent sees my fit:
The more she frieseth in her wilfull pryde:
And harder growes the harder she is smit,
With all the playnts which to her be applyde.
What then remaines but I to ashes burne,
And she to stones at length all frosen turne?