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Behold what hap PYGMALION had, to frame And carve his grief himself 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 even with mine own desires, I figured on the table of my heart; The goodliest shape that 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 sweet Idea I adore: Yet cannot find her breathe unto my rest. Hard is her heart, and woe is me therefore. O blessed he that joys his stone and art! Unhappy I! to love a stony heart.

SONNET VIII.

Oft and in vain my rebel thoughts have ventured To stop the passage of my vanquished heart; And close the way, my friendly foe first entered: Striving thereby to free my better part.

Whilst guarding thus the windows of my thought, Where my heart's thief to vex me made her choice; And thither all my forces to transport: Another passage opens at her voice.

Her voice betrays me to her hand and eye, My freedom's tyrant, glorying in her art: But, ah! sweet foe! small is the victory, With three such powers to plague one silly heart. Yet my soul's sovereign! since I must resign; Reign in my thoughts! My love and life are thine!