The king therefore, for her defence, Against the furious queene, At Woodstocke builded such a bower, The like was never scene. Most curiously that bower was built Of stone and timber strong, An hundred 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 so 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 space, 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 down 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 bloodye warres My lord must part awaye. But since your grace on forrayne coastes Amonge your foes unkinde Must goe to hazard life and limbe, Why should I staye behinde? Nay rather, let me, like a page, Your sworde and target beare; That on my breast the blowes may lighte, Which would offend you there. Or lett mee, in your royal tent, Prepare your bed at nighte, And with sweete baths refresh your grace, Ar your returne from fighte. So I your presence may enjoye No toil I will refuse; But wanting you, my life is death; Nay, death Ild rather chuse!