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.