Classic Poem

Behold what hap Pigmalion had to frame
And carue his proper griefe vpon a stone;
My heauy fortune is much like the same,
I worke on flint, and thats the cause I mone.
For haplesse loe euen with mine owne desires,
I figurde on the table of mine hart,
The fairest forme, that all the world admires,
And so did perish by my proper art.
And still I toyle, to change the Marble brest
Of her, whose sweetest grace I do adore,
Yet cannot finde her breathe vnto my rest,
Hard is her hart, and woe is me therefore.
But happy he that ioy'd his stone and art,
Vnhappy I, to loue a stony hart.