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L.
How
heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek, my
weary travel's end,
Doth teach that ease and that
repose to say
'Thus far the miles are measured from
thy friend!'
The beast that bears me, tired with my
woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As
if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider
loved not speed, being made from thee:
The bloody
spur cannot provoke him on
That sometimes anger
thrusts into his hide;
Which heavily he answers with
a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
For that same groan doth put this in my mind;
My
grief lies onward and my joy behind.
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