L

    How heavy do I journey on the way, When what I seek, my weary travel's end, Doth teach that ease and that repose¹ to say, 'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend！' The beast that bears me, tired with my woe², Plods³ dully on, to bear that weight in me, As if by some instinct the wretch⁴ did know His rider lov'd not speed, being made from thee： The bloody⁵ spur cannot provoke him on, That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide, Which heavily he answers with a groan⁶, More sharp to me than spurring to his side； For that same groan doth put this in my mind, My grief lies onward⁷, and my joy behind.