SEATED on marble was my Lady blithe,
Holding in hand a crystal looking-glass;
Marking of Lovers thousands; who alive,
Thanks only to her beauty rare, did pass.
To pry in glasses likes her: but afterward
She takes the nature of the stone most hard.
For whilst she cheerfully doth fix her eyes,
Gazing upon the brightness of the one;
Her heart, by th' other's made, in strangy wise,
Hard as a rock and senseless as a stone:
So that if Love this breaketh not in twain;
It will a flint become, to others' pain.