Но мне больней: простерлась впереди
  Моя печаль, а радость – позади.


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 measured from thy friend.’
The beast that bears me, tir;d with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some inst;nct 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.