And twenty times with wat’ry eyes,
he kiſs’d her tender cheek.
Until he had reviv’d again,
her ſpirit mild and meek.
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 let me, like a page,
thy ſword and target bear,
That on my breaſt the blow may light,
that ſhall 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 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 pleaſing court,
for travels ſit not thee.
