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The King therefor, for her defence
Against the furious queen,

At Woodstock builded fuch a bower,
The like was never feen.

Moft curiously that bower was built,
Of stone and timber ftrong,
One hundered and fifty doors
Did to this bower belong:
And they fo cunningly contriv'd,
With turnings round about,

That none, but with a clew of thread,

Could enter in or out.

And, for his love and ladys fake,
That was fo fair and bright,
The keeping of this bower he gave
Unto a valiant knight.

But Fortune, that doth often frown
Where the before did fmile,
The kings delight, the ladys joy,
Full foon fhe did beguile.

For why, the kings ungracious fon,
Whom he did high advance,
Against his father raifed wars,
Within the realm of France.

Bu

But yet before our comely king
The English land forfook,
O Rofamond, his lady fair,
His farewell thus he took :

My Rofamond, my only Rofe,
Tnat pleaseft beft mine eye,
The fairest flower in all the world
To feed myf antafy:

The flower of my affected heart,
Whose sweetnefs doth excell:
My royal Rofe, a thousand times
I bid thee now farewell.

For I muft leave my fairest flower,
My fweeteft Rofe, a space,

And cross the feas to famous France,

Proud rebels to abafe.

But yet, my Rofe, be fure thou fhalt

My coming fhortly fee,

And in my heart, when hence I am,
I'll bear my Rofe with me.

When Rofamond, that lady bright,
Did hear the king fay fo,
The forrow of her grieved heart
Her outward looks did fhow;

And

And from her clear and crystal eyes

Tears gushed out apace,
Which, like the filver-pearled dew,
Ran down her comely face.

Her lips, erft like the coral red,
Did wax both wan and pale,
And, for the forrow fhe conceiv'd,
Her vital fpirits did fail;
And falling down all in a fwoon,
Before king Henry's face,
Full oft he in his princely arms
Her body did embrace :

And twenty times, with watery eyes,

He kifs'd her tender cheek,

Until he had reviv'd again

Her fenfes mild and meek.

Why grieves my Rofe, my fweetest Rose?
The king did often fay.
Becaufe, quoth fhe, to bloody wars
My lord must pass away.

But fince your grace, on foreign coafts,

Among your foes unkind,

Muft go to hazard life and limb,

Why should I ftay behind?

Nay,

Nay, rather, let me, like a page,

Your fword and target bear;
That on my breast the blows may light,
That should offend you there.

Or let me, in your royal tent,
Prepare your bed at night,

And with fweet baths refresh your grace,
At your return from fight.

So I your prefence may enjoy,
No toil I will refufe ;

But wanting you, my life is death;

Which doth true love abuse.

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Content thyself, my deareft love;
Thy rest at home shall be ;

In Englands fweet and pleasant foil;
For travel fits not thee.

Fair ladies brook not bloody wars;
Sweet peace their pleasures breed;
The nourisher of hearts content,
Which fancy first did feed.

My Rose shall rest in Woodstock bower,
With mufics fweet delight;
Whilft I, among the piercing pikes,

Against my foes do fight.

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My Rofe in robes of pearl and gold,
With diamonds richly dight,

Shall dance the galliards of my love,
While I my foes do smite.

And

you, fir Thomas, whom I trust To be my loves defence,

Be careful of my gallant Rofe
When I am parted hence.
And therewithall he fetch'd a figh,

As though his heart would break;
And Rofamond, for very grief,

Not one plain word could fpeak.

And at their parting well they might
In heart be grieved fore;
After that day fair Rofamond

The king did fee no more.

For when his grace had pafs'd the feas,
And into France was gone,
Queen Eleanor, with envious heart,
To Woodstock came anon.

And forth fhe calls this trufty knight,
Who kept this curious bower;

Who, with his clew of twined thread,
Came from this famous flower.

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