Ah, the dangers of Facebook. Just when I was about to toddle off to bed, I was encouraged by The History Police page to unleash my Bad Ricardian Inner Poet. It led to this:
The Ballad of the White Rose
Anne, my sweet, frail flower
Sacrificed for the sake of power
Forced to marry a cruel and vengeful youth,
You kept within your heart the shining truth.
To lie with him you did abhor,
For you were bound to the white boar.
Death freed you from Lancaster’s wretched grasp,
Only to place you in Clarence’s cruel clasp.
In a cook shop you languished,
While all thought you had vanished.
Yet as Romeo would not be parted from his love,
Richard could not forget his gentle dove.
All he sought was your fair hand,
He cared nothing for your land.
Through London’s streets he paced by night,
While you continued in your helpless plight.
Good Lady Fortune led him to your side,
And you at last became his bride.
To lie with Richard, oh, such bliss!
Nothing like Lancaster’s cold kiss.
But now the door we must close,
On the wedding night of our fair rose.
There could be more here if you encouraged me . . .