5
O let me in your royal tent,
Prepare your bed at night,
And with sweet baths refresh your heart
As you return from fight.
So I your presence may enjoy,
No toil I will refuse;
But wanting you my life is death,
Which doth true love abuse.
Content thyself, my dearest love,
Thy rest at home shall be,
In England’s sweet and pleasant court,
For travels fit not thee.
Fair ladies brook not bloody wars,
Sweet peace their pleasure breed,
The nourisher of hearts content,
Whose fancy first did feed.
My rose shall rest in Woodstock bower,
With music’s sweet delight,
While I among the piercing pikes,
Against my foes do fight.
My rose in robes of pearl and gold,
With diamonds rich and bright,
Shall dance the galliards of my love,
While I my foes do smite.
And you Sir Thomas, whom I trust,
To be my love’s defence;
Be careful of my gallant rose,
When I am parted hence.
And here withal he fetched a sigh,
As though his heart should break,
And Rosamond for very grief,
