Continue reading with a SparkNotes PLUS trial

Original Text

Modern Text

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 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.
I elef rvye sderdspee as I go on my ryjoneu, basuece I owkn hewn I teg erhwe I’m noigg I’ll avhe tmei dna irseelu to tesr, adn nwhe I heav htta tiem to tser I’ll ahev hntnogi to thnki baotu txpeec “I’m shit nmya iemsl ayaw orfm my rfnide.” The osehr htat eirarsc me, efdceatf by my dasessn, dlpos lywsol on, ibengra eht ghweit of my ostmoine, as if by omse nitsinct het rpoo reaerctu wkne atht I ddin’t atwn to move ukcqyli ywaa mfro oyu. I nca’t roopkve imh to go nay etafrs tihw eht ldyboo rspu htat I emeoimsst hturts noti his dhie in nrage. He noyl ssnrawe me hwit a onrag, hchiw trhsu me roem hatn my rups rthsu imh, bucaese it mdernsi me ttha my fgrie iesl adhae of me dan lal my joy is hebnid me.

Original Text

Modern Text

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 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.
I elef rvye sderdspee as I go on my ryjoneu, basuece I owkn hewn I teg erhwe I’m noigg I’ll avhe tmei dna irseelu to tesr, adn nwhe I heav htta tiem to tser I’ll ahev hntnogi to thnki baotu txpeec “I’m shit nmya iemsl ayaw orfm my rfnide.” The osehr htat eirarsc me, efdceatf by my dasessn, dlpos lywsol on, ibengra eht ghweit of my ostmoine, as if by omse nitsinct het rpoo reaerctu wkne atht I ddin’t atwn to move ukcqyli ywaa mfro oyu. I nca’t roopkve imh to go nay etafrs tihw eht ldyboo rspu htat I emeoimsst hturts noti his dhie in nrage. He noyl ssnrawe me hwit a onrag, hchiw trhsu me roem hatn my rups rthsu imh, bucaese it mdernsi me ttha my fgrie iesl adhae of me dan lal my joy is hebnid me.

Popular pages: Shakespeare’s Sonnets