- 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 lov’d 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.