And just before the officers His lovynge wyfe came ynne, Weepynge unfeignèd teeres of woe, Wythe loude and dysmalle dynne.
"Sweet Florence! nowe I praie forbere, Ynne quiet lett mee die; Praie Godde, thatt ev'ry Christian soule May looke onne dethe as I.
"Sweet Florence! why these brinie teeres? Theye washe my soule awaie, And almost make mee wyshe for lyfe, Wythe thee, sweete dame, to staie.
"'Tys butt a journie I shalle goe Untoe the lande of blysse; Nowe, as a proofe of husbande's love, Receive thys holie kysse."
Thenne Florence, fault'ring ynne her saie, Tremblynge these wordyès spoke:-- "Ah, cruele Edwarde! bloudie kynge! My herte ys welle nyghe broke:
"Ah, sweete Syr Charles! why wylt thou goe, Wythoute thye lovynge wyfe? The cruelle axe thatt cuttes thye necke, Ytte eke shall ende mye lyfe."
And nowe the officers came ynne To brynge Syr Charles awaie, Whoe turnedd toe hys lovynge wyfe, And thus to her dydd saie:--
"I goe to lyfe, and nott to dethe; Truste thou ynne Godde above, And teache thye sonnes to feare the Lorde, And ynne theyre hertes hym love:
"Teache them to runne the nobile race Thatt I theyre fader runne: Florence! shou'd dethe thee take--adieu! Yee officers, leade onne."
Thenne Florence rav'd as anie madde, And dydd her tresses tere; "Oh! staie, mye husbande! lorde! and lyfe!" Syr Charles thenne dropt a teare.
'Tyll tyrèdd oute wythe ravynge loud, She fellen onne the flore; Syr Charles exerted alle hys myghte, And march'd fromme oute the dore.
Uponne a sledde hee mounted thenne, Wythe lookes fulle brave and swete; Lookes, thatt enshone ne more concern Thanne anie ynne the strete.
O! synge untoe mie roundelaie, O! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee, Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie, Lycke a reynynge ryver bee; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree.
Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte, Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe, Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte, Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe; Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree.
Swote hys tyngue as the throstles note, Quycke ynn daunce as thoughte canne bee, Defte hys taboure, codgelle stote, O! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree; Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Alle underre the wvllowe tree.