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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 liuing 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 euer to endure so taedious toyle, sins that this one is tost with troublous fit, of a proud loue, that doth my spirite spoyle. Ceasse then, till she vouchsafe to grawnt me rest, or lend you me another liuing brest.
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