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| SONNET 50 |
| 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. |
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