Withers my bloom, and makes my strength decay.
"His death, his sorrows are the heavy curse
That hangs above my poor, distracted head!
His dying words have scatter'd vain remorse,
For vain, though bitter, are the tears I shed.
"And yet my father to my soul was dear,
But tender pity was on Henry's side;
I painted him relenting, not severe,
Nor fancied I could be an orphan bride.
"Ah me! excuses will not cure my pain!