5
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 iet me like a page,
Thy sword and target bear,
That on my breast the blow may light,
That should offend my dear.
O let me in your royal tent,
Prepare your bed at night!
And with sweet baths refresh you there
As you return from fight.
So I your presence will 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 pleasing 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.
