by William Shakespeare
Thus can my love excuse the slow offense
Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed:
From where thou art why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need.
Oh, what excuse will my poor beast then find,
When swift extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind,
In winged speed no motion shall I know.
Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;
Therefore desire, of perfectst love being made,
Shall neigh, no dull flesh in his fiery race;
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade:
Since from thee going he went willful slow,
Toward thee I'll run and give him leave to go.
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