Seccombe and Arber, comps. Elizabethan Sonnets. 1904.
Amoretti and EpithalamionSonnet XXXIII. Great wrong I do, I can it not deny
Edmund Spenser (1552?–1599)G
To that most sacred Empress, my dear dread,
Not finishing her Queen of Faery,
That mote enlarge her living praises, dead.
But Lodwick, this of grace to me aread;
Do ye not think th’ accomplishment of it
Sufficient work for one man’s simple head,
All were it, as the rest, but rudely writ?
How then should I, without another wit,
Think ever to endure so tedious toil!
Sith that this one is toss’d with troublous fit
Of a proud love, that doth my spirit spoil.
Cease then, till she vouchsafe to grant me rest;
Or lend you me another living breast.