The paynefull smith with force of feruent heat, <br />the hardest yron soone doth mollify: <br />that with his heauy sledge he can it beat, <br />and fashion to what he it list apply. <br />Yet cannot all these flames in which I fry, <br />her hart more harde then yron soft awhit; <br />ne all the playnts and prayers with which I <br />doe beat on th'anduyle of her stubberne wit: <br />But still the more she feruent sees my fit: <br />the more she frieseth in her wilfull pryde: <br />and harder growes the harder she is smit, <br />with all the playnts which to her be applyde. <br />What then remaines but I to ashes burne, <br />and she to stones at length all frosen turne?<br /><br />Edmund Spenser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxxii-3/
