She had not pulled a root, a root,
A root but barely five
When hellish shrieked the smallest shoot,
Says, Lady, I’m alive.
Oh see you not the blood he said
That purples me around,
Oh see you not the blood he said,
Lies darkling on the ground?
For I was once a man in deed
Where now I am a root
and underneath my seven leaves
I bear a forked root
A forked root that down does pierce
Unto the bones below
The skull, the breastbone and the ribs
That once my flesh did know.
And they have waited many years
These hundred score and nine
As do the bones of self-killed men
Yet still the bones are mine.
The worms have wasted all my heart
These long years were their gain,
Yet had the root but touched the rib
I’d grown it there again.
But you have plucked my root lady
Before it touched the bone
And you have spread my blood abroad
It dries there on the stone.
Oh had you left me but a day
A day but barely one,
The root had touched, and I had been
The mandrake’s naked son.
But you have broke my seven leaves
And turned me back to hell:
Each leaf it was three hundred years
Oh Lady did you well?
And you have torn me from my grave
That was my cradle too
And for this thing that you have done
My curse shall make you rue
And when the moon is dark he said
And the sun’s in agony
The nearest meat that ever you eat
Shall choke both your true love and you.