Shakespeare's 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 knowHis rider lov’d 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.

How sadly I travel on my way,
when the end I seek after my weary journey
makes the comfort and rest I find there say,
“You are this many miles away from your friend!”
The animal carrying me, tired by my sorrow,
plods slowly under the burden I carry inside,
as though some instinct told the poor creature
that his rider wants no speed when moving away from you.
The blood-drawing spur cannot drive him faster,
though in anger I sometimes thrust it into his skin.
He answers it with a weary groan
that hurts me more sharply than the spur hurts his side.
For that same groan reminds me
that my grief lies ahead and my joy behind.