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 measur’d from thy friend!’

The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,

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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,

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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.