_FAIR ROSAMUND_
When as King Henry ruled this land
The second of that name,
Above all else, he dearly loved
A fair and comely dame.
Her crisped locks like threads of gold
Appear'd to each man's sight;
Her sparkling eyes, like orient pearls
Did cast a heavenly light.
The blood within her crystal cheeks
Did such a colour drive,
As though the lily and the rose
For mastership did strive.
Yea Rosamund, fair Rosamund,
Her name was called so,
To whom our queen, queen Ellinor
Was known a deadly foe.
The king therefore, for her defence
Against the furious queen,
At Woodstock builded such a bower,
The like was never seen.
Most curiously that bower was built,
Of stone and timber strong,
An hundred and fifty doors
Did to this bower belong.
And they so cunningly contrived,
With turnings round about,
That none, but with a clue of thread,
Could enter in and out.
And for his love and lady's sake.
That was so fair and bright,
The keeping of this bower he gave
Unto a valiant knight.
But fortune, that doth often frown
Where she before did smile,
The king's delight and 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 realm of France.
But yet before our comely king
The English land forsook,
Of Rosamund, his lady fair,
His farewell thus he took:
'My Rosamund, my only rose,
That pleaseth best mine eye:
The fairest flower in all the world
To feed my fantasy;
'The flower of mine affected heart,
Whose sweetness doth excel
All roses else a thousand times,
I bid thee now farewell.'
When Rosamund, that lady bright,
Did hear the king say so,
The sorrow of her grieved heart
Her outward looks did show;
And from her clear and crystal eyes
The tears gush'd out apace,
Which like the silver pearled dew
Ran down her comely face.
'Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?
The king did often say.
'Because,' quoth she, 'to bloody wars
My lord must part away.
'But since your Grace on foreign coasts,
Among your foes unkind,
Must go to hazard life and limb,
Why should I stay behind?
'Nay, rather let me, like a page,
Your sword and target bear,
That on my breast the blows may light,
Which would offend you there.
'So I your presence may enjoy
No toil I will refuse;
But wanting you, my life is death;
Nay, death I'd rather choose!'
'Content thyself, my dearest love,
Thy rest at home shall be
In England's sweet and pleasant isle;
For travel fits not thee.
My Rose shall safely here abide,
With music pass the day;
Whilst I, among the piercing pikes,
My foes seek far away.
And you, Sir Thomas, whom I trust
To be my love's defence;
Be careful of my gallant Rose
When I am parted hence.'
And therewithal he fetch'd a sigh
As though his heart would break:
And Rosamund, for very grief,
Not one plain word could speak.
And at their parting well they might
In heart be grieved sore:
After that day fair Rosamund
The king did see no more.
For when his Grace had past the seas,
And into France was gone,
With envious heart queen Ellinor
To Woodstock came anone.
And forth she calls this trusty knight
In an unhappy hour;
Who with his clue of twined thread
Came from this famous bower.
And when that they had wounded him
The queen this thread did get,
And went, where lady Rosamund
Was like an angel set.
But when the queen with steadfast eye
Beheld her beauteous face,
She was amazed in her mind
At her exceeding grace.
'Cast off from thee those robes,' she said,
'That rich and costly be;
And drink thou up this deadly draught,
Which I have brought to thee.'
Then presently upon her knees
Sweet Rosamund did fell;
And pardon of the queen she craved
For her offences all.
'Take pity on my youthful years,'
Fair Rosamund did cry;
'And let me not with poison strong
Enforced be to die.'
And with these words, her lily hands
She wrung full often there;
And down along her lovely face
Did trickle many a tear.
But nothing could this furious queen
Therewith appeased be;
The cup of deadly poison strong,
As she knelt on her knee,
She gave this comely dame to drink,
Who took it in her hand,
And from her bended knee arose,
And on her feet did stand;
And casting up her eyes to heaven
She did for mercy call;
And drinking up the poison strong,
Her life she lost withal.
And when that death through every limb
Had showed its greatest spite,
Her chiefest foes did plain confess
She was a glorious wight.
Her body then they did entomb,
When life was fled away,
At Godstowe, near to Oxford town,
As may be seen this day.
_T. Delone_