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Poem	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.
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