Sonnet L

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 measur’d from thy friend!’
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,	5
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider lov’d not speed, being made from thee:
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,	10
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.