The book of British ballads . kingThe English land forsooke, Of Rosamond, his ladye faire,His farewelle thus he tooke : My Rosamond, my only Rose,That pleasest best mine eye : The fairest flower in all the worldeTo feed my fantasye : The flower of mine affected heart,Whose sweetness doth excelle ; My royal Rose, a thousand times,I bid thee nowe farewelle! For I must leave my fairest flower,My sweetest Rose, a space, And cross the seas to famous France,Proud rebelles to abase. But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt My coming shortly see,And in my heart, when hence I am, He beare my Rose with mee.
The book of British ballads . kingThe English land forsooke, Of Rosamond, his ladye faire,His farewelle thus he tooke : My Rosamond, my only Rose,That pleasest best mine eye : The fairest flower in all the worldeTo feed my fantasye : The flower of mine affected heart,Whose sweetness doth excelle ; My royal Rose, a thousand times,I bid thee nowe farewelle! For I must leave my fairest flower,My sweetest Rose, a space, And cross the seas to famous France,Proud rebelles to abase. But yet, my Rose, be sure thou shalt My coming shortly see,And in my heart, when hence I am, He beare my Rose with mee. When Rosamond, that ladye brighte,Did heare the kinge saye soe, The sorrowe of her grieved heartHer outward looks did showe; And from her cleare and crystall eyesThe teares gusht out apace, Which like the silver-pearled deweRanne downe her comely face. Her lippes erst like the corall redde,Did waxe both wan and pale, And for the sorrowe she conceivdeHer vitall spirits faile ; ft Fcanjdin, del. r$—1 \\\\\\V Jpatr SftosamonU. And falling down all in a swoone Before King Henryes face,Full oft he in his princelye armes Her body did embrace ; And twentye times, with watery eyes, He kist her tender cheeke,Until he had revivde againe Her senses milde and meeke. 1 Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose? The king did often say. Because, quoth shee, to bloodye warres My lord must pass awaye. But sith your grace in forrayne coastes, Amonge your foes unkindeMust goe to hazarde life and limbe, Why should I staye behinde ? Nay, rather let me, like a page,Your sworde and target beare, That on my breast the blowes may lighte,Which would offend you there. Or lett mee, in your royal tent, Prepare your bed at nighte,And with sweete baths refresh your grace, At your returne from fighte. So I your presence may enjoye No toil I will refuse ;But wanting you, my life is death : Nay, death He rather choose. Content thy self, my dearest love ; Thy rest at home shall beeIn Englandes sweet and pleasant
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1840, bookidg, bookpublisherlondonjhow
