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 calveshung 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 henrys love I pine.

He is too skilled in bleeding hearts

To turn this way and pity mine.