For why? the king's ungracious son,
Whom he did high advance,
Against his father raised wars,
Within the realm of France.
But yet before our comely king
The English land forsook,
Of Rosamund, his lady fair,
His farewell thus he took:
'My Rosamund, my only rose,
That pleaseth best mine eye:
The fairest flower in all the world
To feed my fantasy;
'The flower of mine affected heart,
Whose sweetness doth excel
All roses else a thousand times,
I bid thee now farewell.'
When Rosamund, that lady bright,
Did hear the king say so,
The sorrow of her grieved heart
Her outward looks did show;
And from her clear and crystal eyes
The tears gush'd out apace,
Which like the silver pearled dew
Ran down her comely face.
'Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?
The king did often say.
'Because,' quoth she, 'to bloody wars
My lord must part away.
'But since your Grace on foreign coasts,
Among your foes unkind,
Must go to hazard life and limb,
Why should I stay behind?
'Nay, rather let me, like a page,
Your sword and target bear,
That on my breast the blows may light,
Which would offend you there.
'So I your presence may enjoy
No toil I will refuse;
But wanting you, my life is death;
Nay, death I'd rather choose!'