The rolling wheele that runneth often round,
The hardest steel in tract of time doth teare:
And drizzling drops that often doe redound,
The firmest flint doth in continuance weare: 
Yet cannot I, with many a dropping teare,
And long intreatie, soften her hard hart, 
That she will once vouchsafe my plaint to heare,
Or look with pitty on my painefull Smart.
But when I plead, she bids me play my part, 
And when I weepe, she sayes. Teares are but water:
And when I sigh, she sayes, I knowe the art, 
And when I waile, she turnes herselfe to laughter.
  But when I plead . . .

So doe I weepe and waile, and plead in vaine, 
Whiles she as steele and flint doth still remaine.