SONG FROM THE BRIDE OF SMITHFIELD

A thousand guileless sheep have bled, A thousand bullocks knelt in fear, To daub my Henry’s cheek with red And round the curl above his ear. And wounded calves hung up to drip Have in slow sweats distilled for him The dew that polishes his lip, The inward balm that oils each limb. In vain I spread my maiden arts, In vain for Henry’s love I pine. He is too skilled in bleeding hearts To turn this way and pity mine.