3
An hundred and fifty doors,
Did to this bower belong,
And they so cunningly contriv’d,
With turnings round about,
That none without a clue of thread,
Could enter in or out.
Now for his love and lady's sake,
Who was both fair and bright,
The keeping of this bower he gave
Unto a valiant Knight.
But fortune that doth often frown,
Where it before did smile,
The king’s delight, the lady’s joy,
Full soon she did beguile.
For why, the King’s, ungracious son,
Whom he did high advance,
Against his father raised wars,
Within the realms of France.
But yet before our gracious King
The English land forsook,
Of Rosamond, his fair lady,
His farewell thus he took.
My Rosamond, my only Rose,
Who pleaseth best mine eye,
The fairest flower in all the world
To feed my phantasy;
The flower of my affected heart
Whose sweetness doth excel,
My royal Rose, a hundred times
I bid you now farewell,
