5
Because, said she, to bloody wars
My lord must pass away.
But since your Grace in foreign parts,
Among your foes unknown,
Must go to hazard life and limb,
Why must I stay at home?
Nay, rather let me, like a page,
Thy sword and target bear,
That on my breast the blow may light,
That would 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 fit not thee.
Fair ladies, brook not bloody wars,
Sweet peace their pleasure breed,
The nourisher of hearts content,
Whose fancy first did feed.
My Rose shall rest in Woodstock bower,
With music’s sweet delight,
While I among the piercing pikes
Against my foes do fight.
