XIX. Whilst foaming steed I spur unto the quick

Robert Tofte (1561–1620)

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.