"Sweet FLORENCE! why these brinie teeres? 225
Theye washe my soule awaie,
And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe,
Wyth thee, sweete dame, to staie.
"'Tys butt a journie I shalle goe
Untoe the lande of blysse; 230
Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love,
Receive thys holie kysse."
Thenne FLORENCE, fault'ring ynne her saie,
Tremblynge these wordyes spoke,
"Ah, cruele EDWARDE! bloudie kynge! 235
My herte ys welle nyghe broke:
"Ah, sweete Syr CHARLES! why wylt thou goe,
Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe?
The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke,
Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe." 240
And nowe the officers came ynne
To brynge Syr CHARLES awaie,
Whoe turnedd toe his lovynge wyfe,
And thus toe her dydd saie:
"I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe; 245
Truste thou ynne Godde above,
And teache thye sonnes to feare the Lorde,
And ynne theyre hertes hym love:
"Teache them to runne the nobile race
Thatt I theyre fader runne: 250
FLORENCE! shou'd dethe thee take—adieu!
Yee officers, leade onne."
Thenne FLORENCE rav'd as anie madde,
And dydd her tresses tere;
"Oh! staie, mye husbande! lorde! and lyfe!"— 255
Syr CHARLES thenne dropt a teare.
'Tyll tyredd oute wythe ravynge loud,
Shee fellen onne the flore;
Syr CHARLES exerted alle hys myghte,
And march'd fromm oute the dore. 260
Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne,
Wythe lookes fulle brave and swete;
Lookes, thatt enshone ne moe concern
Thanne anie ynne the strete.