Classic Poem

Great wrong I doe, I can it not deny,
To that most sacred Empresse my dear dred,
Not finishing her Queene of faery,
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 taedious 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.