A Lamentable Ballad of Fair Rosamond , K ing Henry the Second's Concubine,
Who was put to death by Queen Elinor , in Woodstock Bower near Oxford .
The Tune is, Flying Fame.
|
W Hen as King Henry rul'd this Land,
|
the second of that Name,
|
Besides the Queen he dearly lov'd,
|
a fair and comely dame:
|
Most Peerless was her beauty found,
|
her favour and her face,
|
A sweeter creature in this world,
|
did never Prince imbrace.
|
Her crisped Locks like threads of Gold,
|
appear'd to each mans sight,
|
Her comely eyes like orient Pearls,
|
did cast a Heavenly light:
|
The blood within her Cristial cheeks,
|
did such a colour drive,
|
As though the Lilly and the Rose,
|
for mastership did strive.
|
Yea Rosamond , fair Rosamond ,
|
her name was called so,
|
To whome dame Elinor our Queen,
|
was known a deadly foe,
|
The King therefore for her defence,
|
against the furious Queen,
|
At Woodstock builded such a Bower,
|
the like was never seen.
|
Most curiously that Bower was built,
|
of Stone and Timber strong,
|
A hundred and fifty doors,
|
did to this Bower belong,
|
And they so cunningly contriv'd,
|
with turnings round about,
|
That none but with a clew of thread,
|
could enter in or out.
|
And for his Love and Ladies sake,
|
that was so fair and bright,
|
The keeping of this Bower he gave,
|
unto a valiant Knight:
|
But Fortune that doth often frown,
|
where it before did smile,
|
The Kings delight, the Ladies joy,
|
full soon she did beguile.
|
For why, the Kings 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 Rosamond his Lady fair,
|
his farewel thus he took.
|
My Rosamond , my only Rose,
|
that pleasest best mine eye,
|
The fairest flower in all the world,
|
to feed my fantasie:
|
The flower of my affected heart,
|
whose sweetness doth excell,
|
My Royal Rose a hundred times,
|
I bid thee now farewell.
|
For I must leave my fairest flower;
|
my sweetest Rose a space,
|
And cross the Seas to famous France ,
|
proud Rebels to abase:
|
But yet my Rose be sure thou shalt
|
my coming shortly see,
|
And in my heart when hence I am,
|
I'le bear my Rose with me.
|
When Rosamond , 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 cristial eyes,
|
the tears gusht out apace,
|
Which like the silver pearled dew,
|
ran down her comely face.
|
Her lips like to the corral red,
|
did wax both wan and pale,
|
And for the sorrow she conceiv'd,
|
her vital spirits did fail:
|
And falling down all in a swound,
|
before King Henries face,
|
Full oft within his Princely arms,
|
her body did imbrace.
|
And tw[e]nty times with watery eyes
|
he kist her tender Cheek,
|
Until he had reviv'd again,
|
her senses mild and meek:
|
Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose
|
the King did often say,
|
Because quoth she, to bloody wars,
|
my Lord must pass away.
|
But since your Grace in forraign coasts
|
amongst your foes unkind,
|
Must go to hazard life and limb,
|
why should I stay behind?
|
Nay rather let me like a Page,
|
thy Sword and Target bear,
|
That on my Breast the blow may light,
|
that should offend you there.
|
O let me in your Royal Tent,
|
prepare your bed at night,
|
And with sweet baths refresh your grace,
|
at your return from fight,
|
So I your presence may injoy,
|
no toyl I will refuse,
|
But wanting you my life is death,
|
which doth true Love abuse.
|
Content thy self my dearest Love,
|
thy rest at home shall be,
|
In Englands sweet and pleasant soil,
|
for travel fits not thee:
|
Fair Ladies brook no bloody wars,
|
sweet peace their pleasure breed,
|
The nourisher of hearts content,
|
which fancy first did feed.
|
My Rose shall rest in Woodstoock Bower,
|
with Musick sweetly dight,
|
Whilst I among the piercing Pikes
|
against my foes do fight:
|
My Rose in Robes of Pearl and Gold,
|
with Diamonds richly dight,
|
Shall dance the Galliards of my love,
|
while I my foes do smite.
|
And you Sir Thomas whom I trust,
|
to be my Loves defence,
|
Be careful of my gallant rose,
|
when I am parted hence:
|
And therewithal he fetcht a sigh,
|
as though his heart would break,
|
And Rosamond for very grief,
|
not one plain word could speak:
|
And at their parting well they might,
|
in heart be grieved sore,
|
After that day fair Rosamond ,
|
the King did see no more:
|
For when his Grace was past the Seas,
|
and into France was gon,
|
Queen Elinor with envious heart,
|
to Woodstock came anon.
|
And forth she calls this trusty Knight,
|
which kept this curious Bower,
|
Who with his clew of twined thread,
|
came from the famous Flower:
|
And when that they had wounded him,
|
the Queen his Thred did get,
|
And went where Lady Rosamond ,
|
was like an Angel set.
|
But when the Queen with stedfast Eye
|
beheld her heavenly Face,
|
She was amazed in her mind
|
at her exceeding grace.
|
Cast off from thee these Robes (she said)
|
that rich and costly be.
|
And drink thou up this deadly draught,
|
which I have brought to thee.
|
But presenntly upon her knees,
|
sweet Rosamond did fall,
|
And pardon of the Queen she crav'd,
|
for her offences all:
|
Take pitty on my youthful years
|
(fair Rosamond did cry)
|
And let me not with poison strong
|
enforced be to die.
|
I will renounce my sinful life,
|
and in some Cloyster bide
|
Or else be banished if you please,
|
to range the World so wide,
|
And for the fault that I have done,
|
though I was forc'd thereto,
|
Preserve my life and punish me,
|
as you think good to do.
|
And with these words her Lilly hands,
|
she wrung full often there,
|
And down along her comely face,
|
proceeded many a tear:
|
But nothing could this furious Queen,
|
therewith appeased be,
|
The cup of deadly poyson strong,
|
as she sat on her knee.
|
She gave this comely Dame to drink,
|
who took it in her hand,
|
And from her bended knee arose,
|
and on her feet did stand:
|
And casting up her eyes to heaven,
|
she did for mercy call,
|
And drinking up the poyson strong,
|
her life she lost withal.
|
And when that death through every lim[b]
|
had done her greatest spight,
|
Her chiefest foes did there confess,
|
she was a glorious wight:
|
Her body then they did entomb,
|
when life was fled away,
|
At Woodstock near to Oxford Town,
|
as may be seen this day.
|
|
|
|
|
|