I on my horse, and Love on me doth trie
Our horsmanship, while by strange worke I prove,
A horsman to my horse, a horse to Love;
And now mans wrongs in me poore beast discry.
The raines wherewith my ryder doth me tie
Are reverent thoughts, which bit of reverence move,
Curbde in with feare, but with gilt bosse above
Of hope, which makes it seeme faire to the eye:
The wande is will, thou fancie saddle art,
Girt fast by memorie; and while I spurre
My horse, he spurres with sharpe desires my hart,
He sits me fast how ever I doe sturre,
And now hath made me to his hand so right,
That in the manage, my selfe do take delight.