GReat wrong I doe, I can it not deny, <br />to that most sacred Empresse my dear dred, <br />not finishing her Queene of faery, <br />that mote enlarge her liuing prayses dead: <br />But lodwick, this of grace to me aread: <br />doe ye not thinck th'accomplishment of it, <br />sufficient worke for one mans simple head, <br />all were it as the rest but rudely writ. <br />How then should I without another wit: <br />thinck euer to endure so taedious toyle, <br />sins that this one is tost with troublous fit, <br />of a proud loue, that doth my spirite spoyle. <br />Ceasse then, till she vouchsafe to grawnt me rest, <br />or lend you me another liuing brest.<br /><br />Edmund Spenser<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xxxiii-2/
