50

Howe 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 onwards an my ioy behind.

Zie ook het online-facsimile van de oorspronkelijke uitgave (site helaas niet altijd bereikbaar).