Sonnet 32

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'anduyle 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?