Of a dumbe Horse

WHen you and I, Paulus once Hackneys hired,
Rode late to Rochester, my Hackney tired:
You that will lose a friend, to coine a iest,
Play'd thus on me, and my poore tyred beast.
Marke, in Misacmos Horse, a wondrous change,
A sudden Metamorphosis most strange.
His horseway lay at rising of the Sunne,
And now you plaine may see his Horse is downe.
Well, Paulus, thus with me, you please to sport,
But thus againe, your scoffe I can retort.
Your haire was blacke, and therein was your glory:
But in two yeeres, it grew all gray and hoary.
Now like my Hackney worne with too much trauell,
Mired in the clay, or tired in the grauell.
While two yeere more ouer your head are runne,
Your haire is neither blacke, nor gray, 'tis dunne.