4
But still my rose, be sure thou shalt,
My coming shortly see,
And in my heart, when hence I am,
I’ll bear my rose with me.
When Rosamond, the lady bright,
Did hear the king say so,
The sorrows of it so grieved her,
Her outward looks did show.
And from her clear and crystal eyes,
The tears gushed out apace,
Which like the silver pearl dew,
Ran down her comely face,
And falling down into a swoon,
Before King Henry’s face:
Full oft within his princely arms,
Her body did embrace.
And twenty times with watery eyes,
He kissed her tender cheek,
Until she had revived again,
Her spirit mild and meek,
Why grieves my rose? my sweetest Rose,
The king did often say,
Because said she, to bloody wars,
My Lord must pass away.
But since your Grace in foreign parts
Amongst your foes unkind,
Must go to hazard life and limb,
Why must I stay behind.
Nay, rather let me like a page,
Thy sword and target bear,
That on my breast the blow may light,
