WHILST foaming steed I spur unto the quick,
To make him gallop to my Love amain:
Love doth my thoughts, through Fancy, forward prick;
The end of wishèd journey mine to gain.
But light's his hurt! 'Tis but a little smart!
Where mine is mortal, sounding to the heart.
Run then, my gelding swift, like Pegasus!
Fly hence with wings! for wings hath my desire:
Both of us, forced amain, are forward thus,
And kindled in us is a burning fire.
Thou, through two spurs in flank, provoked art sore:
But thousands inwardly, my heart do gore.