Part 3 (1/2)

The lords and n.o.bles, when they saw The end of these events, The other sisters unto death They doomed by consents; And being dead, their crowns they left Unto the next of kin: Thus have you seen the fall of pride, And disobedient sin.

Fair Rosamond

When as King Henry rulde this land, The second of that name, Besides the queene, he dearly lovde A faire and comely dame.

Most peerlesse was her beautye founde, Her favour, and her face; A sweeter creature in this worlde Could never prince embrace.

Her crisped lockes like threads of golde, Appeard to each man's sight; Her sparkling eyes, like Orient pearles, Did cast a heavenlye light.

The blood within her crystal cheekes Did such a colour drive, As though the lillye and the rose For masters.h.i.+p did strive.

Yea Rosamonde, fair Rosamonde, Her name was called so, To whom our queene, Dame Ellinor, Was known a deadlye foe.

The king therefore, for her defence Against the furious queene, At Woodstocke builded such a bower, The like was never seene.

Most curiously that bower was built, Of stone and timber strong; An hundered and fifty doors Did to this bower belong:

And they so cunninglye contriv'd, With turnings round about, That none but with a clue of thread Could enter in or out.

And for his love and ladyes sake, That was so faire and brighte, The keeping of this bower he gave Unto a valiant knighte.

But fortune, that doth often frowne Where she before did smile, The kinges delighte and ladyes joy Full soon shee did beguile:

For why, the kinges ungracious sonne, Whom he did high advance, Against his father raised warres Within the realme of France.

But yet before our comelye king The English land forsooke, Of Rosamond, his lady faire, His farewelle thus he tooke:

”My Rosamonde, my only Rose, That pleasest best mine eye, The fairest flower in all the worlde To feed my fantasye,--

”The flower of mine affected heart, Whose sweetness doth excelle, My royal Rose, a thousand times I bid thee nowe farwelle!

”For I must leave my fairest flower, My sweetest Rose, a s.p.a.ce, And cross the seas to famous France, Proud rebelles to abase.

”But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt My coming shortlye see, And in my heart, when hence I am, Ile beare my Rose with mee.”

When Rosamond, that ladye brighte, Did heare the king saye soe, The sorrowe of her grieved heart Her outward lookes did showe.

And from her cleare and crystall eyes The teares gusht out apace, Which, like the silver-pearled dewe, Ranne downe her comely face.

Her lippes, erst like the corall redde, Did waxe both wan and pale, And for the sorrow she conceivde Her vitall spirits faile.

And falling downe all in a swoone Before King Henryes face, Full oft he in his princelye armes Her bodye did embrace.

And twentye times, with watery eyes, He kist her tender cheeke, Untill he had revivde againe Her senses milde and meeke.

”Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?”

The king did often say: ”Because,” quoth shee, ”to b.l.o.o.d.ye warres My lord must part awaye.