Sonnet 33

GREAT wrong I doe, I can it not deny,

To that most sacred empresse, my dear dred,

Not finishing her Queene of Fa?ry,

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 t?dious 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.