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 dully on to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider loved not speed, being made from thee.
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on
That sometimes 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.
I feel very depressed as I go on my journey, because I know when I get where I’m going I’ll have time and leisure to rest, and when I have that time to rest I’ll have nothing to think about except “I’m this many miles away from my friend.” The horse that carries me, affected by my sadness, plods slowly on, bearing the weight of my emotions, as if by some instinct the poor creature knew that I didn’t want to move quickly away from you. I can’t provoke him to go any faster with the bloody spur that I sometimes thrust into his hide in anger. He only answers me with a groan, which hurts me more than my spur hurts him, because it reminds me that my grief lies ahead of me and all my joy is behind me.
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