Sonnet XVIII

THe rolling wheele that runneth often round,
The hardest steele in tract of time doth teare:
And drizling drops that often doe redound,
The firmest flint doth in continuance weare.
Yet cannot I with many a dropping teare,
And long intreaty soften her hard hart:
That she will once vouchsafe my plaint to heare,
Or looke with pitty on my payneful smart.
But when I pleade, she bids me play my part,
And when I weep, she sayes teares are but water:
And when I sigh, she sayes I know the art,
And when I waile she turnes hir selfe to laughter.
So doe I weepe, and wayle, and pleade in vaine,
Whiles she as steele and flint doth still remayne.

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