This is how my love for you excuses the slow progress of my weary horse as I speed away from you: " Why do I have to hurry there? " There's no need to race until I'm on my way back. Oh, what excuse will my poor horse have then when even the most extreme speed will seem slow? Then, even if I were riding on the wind, I'd spur. Even in that flying speed I would feel as though I weren't moving. No horse could keep pace with my desire then. My desire, made of the purest love, will deny that he's a horse of flesh and blood in his fiery race. But, Love, for the sake of love I'll excuse my old horse like this: since he deliberately slowed down as I was leaving you, I'll let him go altogether and run back to you.
