King Henry's Lament For His Third Wife.

As the winds turn biting cold, and, as green leaves turn to gold, a cloak of velvet I would fold around your form, your grace, With each step on icy ground, with each heartbeat's hollow sound, a hood of swansdown I'd place round your pretty, pale, sad face, Would that I could end this pain, hear your laughter ring again, dance with you, my dearest Jane, and bring you from this place.