Sonnet 50

Now heavie doe I journey on the way,

When what I seeke (my wearie travels end)

Doth teach that ease and that repose to say

Thus farre the miles are measurde from thy friend.

The beast that beares me, tired with my woe,

Plods duly on, to beare that waight in me,

As if by some instinct the wretch did know

His rider lov'd not speed being made from thee:

The bloody spurre cannot provoke him on,

That some-times anger thrusts into his hide,

Which heavily he answers with a grone,

More sharpe to me then spurring to his side.

For that same grone doth put this in my mind,

My greefe lies onward and my joy behind.