I On My Horse, And Loue On Me, Doth Trie Our Horsemanships, While By Strange Worke I Proue A Horsman To My Horse, A Horse To Loue, And Now Mans Wrongs In Me, Poor Beast! Descrie. The Raines Wherewith My Rider Doth Me Tie Are Humbled Thoughts, Which Bit Of Reuerence Moue, Curb'D-In With Feare, But With Gilt Bosse Aboue Of Hope, Which Makes It Seem Fair To The Eye: The Wand Is Will; Thou, Fancie, Saddle Art, Girt Fast By Memorie; And While I Spurre My Horse, He Spurres With Sharpe Desire My Hart. He Sits Me Fast, Howeuer I Do Sturre, And Now Hath Made Me To His Hand So Right, That In The Manage My Selfe Take Delight.