The flower of my affected heart,
whoſe ſweetneſs doth excel.
My royal roſe an hundred times,
I bid you now farewel.
For I muſt leave my faireſt roſe,
my ſweeteſt roſe a ſpace,
And croſs the ocean into France,
proud rebels to debaſe.
But ſtill my roſe, be ſure thou ſhalt,
my coming ſhortly ſee,
And in my heart, when hence I am,
I’ll bear my roſe with me.
When Roſamond, the lady bright,
did hear the king ſay ſo,
The ſorrows of her grieved heart,
her outward looks did ſhow.
And from her clear and chryſtal eyes,
the tears guſh’d out apace,
Which like the ſilver pearly dew,
ran down her comely face.
Her lips like to the coral red,
did wax both wan and pale,
And for the ſorrow ſhe conceiv’d,
her vital ſpirits fail
And falling down into a ſwoon,
before King Henry’s face
full oft within his princely arms,
her body did embrace.
