HOw heauie doe I iourney on the way,
When what I seeke (my wearie trauels 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 lou’d not speed being made from thee:
The bloody spurre cannot prouoke him on,
That some-times anger thrusts into his hide,
Which heauily 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 ioy behind.

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 duly on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instínct the wretch did know
His rider loved not speed being made from thee.
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on,
That some-times 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.