Sonnet 18

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.