Laura. The Toyes of a Traveller. Or. The Feast of Fancie - Part 3, 34
Strange is this thing, my Horse I cannot make
With spurre, with speech, nor yet with rod in hand
Force him to goe, although great paines I take,
Doo what I can, he still as tyrde doth stand:
No doubt he feeles an heavie weight of mee,
Which is the cause he standeth still as stone:
Nor is he ware that now he carrieth three,
He thinkes (poore Jade) I am on's backe alone:
But three we are with mine owne selfe I prove,
Laura is in my Hart, in Soule is Love.
With spurre, with speech, nor yet with rod in hand
Force him to goe, although great paines I take,
Doo what I can, he still as tyrde doth stand:
No doubt he feeles an heavie weight of mee,
Which is the cause he standeth still as stone:
Nor is he ware that now he carrieth three,
He thinkes (poore Jade) I am on's backe alone:
But three we are with mine owne selfe I prove,
Laura is in my Hart, in Soule is Love.
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