_Mess._ Thy father, O Queen, here in this cup hath sent The thing to joy and comfort thee withal, Which thou lovedst best: ev’n as thou wast content To comfort him with his best joy of all. _Gis._ I thank my father, and thee, gentle Squire; For this thy travail; take thou for thy pains This bracelet, and commend me to the King. * * * * * So, now is come the long-expected hour, The fatal hour I have so looked for. Now hath my father satisfied his thirst With guiltless blood, which he so coveted. What brings this cup? aye me, I thought no less; It is my Earl’s, my County’s pierced heart. Dear heart, too dearly hast thou bought my love. Extremely rated at too high a price. Ah my dear heart, sweet wast thou in thy life, But in thy death thou provest passing sweet. A fitter hearse than this of beaten gold Could not be lotted to so good a heart. My father therefore well provided thus To close and wrap thee up in massy gold And therewithal to send thee unto me, To whom of duty thou dost best belong. My father hath in all his life bewrayed A princely care and tender love to me, But this surpasseth, in his latter days To send me this mine own dear heart to me. Wert not thou mine, dear heart, whilst that my love Danced and play’d upon thy golden strings? Art thou not mine, dear heart, now that my love Is fled to heaven, and got him golden wings? Thou art mine own, and still mine own shall be, Therefore my father sendeth thee to me. Ah pleasant harbourer of my heart’s thought! Ah sweet delight, the quickener of my soul! Seven times accursed be the hand that wrought Thee this despite, to mangle thee so foul Yet in this wound I see my own true love, And in this wound thy magnanimity, And in this wound I see thy constancy. Go, gentle heart, go rest thee in thy tomb; Receive this token as thy last farewell. _She kisseth it._ Thy own true heart anon will follow thee, Which panting hasteth for thy company. Thus hast thou run, poor heart, thy mortal race, And rid thy life from fickle fortune’s snares, Thus hast thou lost this world and worldly cares, And of thy foe, to honour thee withal, Receiv’d a golden grave to thy desert. Nothing doth want to thy just funeral, But my salt tears to wash thy bloody wound; Which to the end thou mightst receive, behold, My father sends thee in this cup of gold: And thou shalt have them; though I was resolved To shed no tears; but with a cheerful face Once did I think to wet thy funeral Only with blood, and with no weeping eye. This done, my soul forthwith shall fly to thee; For therefore did my father send thee me.