"Leicester!" she cried, "is this thy love
That thou so oft hast sworn to me,
To leave me in this lonely grove,
Immured in shameful privity?
"No more thou com'st with lover's speed
Thy once-belovèd bride to see;
But, be she alive, or be she dead,
I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee.
"Not so the usage I received
When happy in my father's hall;
No faithless husband then me grieved,
No chilling fears did me appall.
"I rose up with the cheerful morn,
No lark more blithe, no flower more gay;
And like the bird that haunts the thorn
So merrily sung the livelong day.
"If that my beauty is but small,
Among court ladies all despised,
Why didst thou rend it from that hall,
Where, scornful Earl! it well was prized?
"But, Leicester, or I much am wrong,
Or, 'tis not beauty lures thy vows;
Rather, ambition's gilded crown
Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.
"Then, Leicester, why,—again I plead,
The injured surely may repine,—
Why didst thou wed a country maid,
When some fair princess might be thine?
"Why didst thou praise my humble charms,
And oh! then leave them to decay?
Why didst thou win me to thy arms,
Then leave to mourn the livelong day?
"The village maidens of the plain
Salute me lowly as they go;
Envious they mark my silken train,
Nor think a countess can have woe.
"How far less blest am I than them!
Daily to pine and waste with care!
Like the poor plant, that, from its stem
Divided, feels the chilling air.