Great wrong I doe, I can it not deny,
    to that most sacred Empresse my dear dred,
    not finishing her Queene of faëry,
    that mote enlarge her living prayses dead:
But lodwick, this of grace to me aread:
    doe ye not thinck th'accomplishment of it,
    sufficient worke for one mans simple head,
    all were it as the rest but rudely writ.
How then should I without another wit:
    thinck ever to endure so tædious toyle,
    sins that this one is tost with troublous fit
    of a proud love, that doth my spirite spoyle.
Ceasse then, till she vouchsafe to grawnt me rest,
    or lend you me another living brest.