My lord must part awaye.

"But since your Grace on forrayne coastes,
Amonge your foes unkinde,
Must goe to hazard 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 Ild rather chuse."

"Content thy self, my dearest love,
Thy rest at home shall bee,
In Englandes sweet and pleasant isle;
For travell fits not thee.

"Faire ladies brooke not bloodye warres;
Soft peace their sexe delightes;
Not rugged campes, but courtlye bowers;