A/N: It's me, GreenField, and this one is set to a poem, rather than a song. The poem was written by Christopher Marlowe in 1599 – there's a bit of history for you! Mary Boleyn/William Stafford. Please review!

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

"Mary! Mary!"

Mary turned her head very slightly in acknowledgement of William Stafford's presence, a small smile curving her lips. She had grown to rather like William, and she did think him handsome, of course. She had started to avoid the intensity of his warm, brown-eyed gaze, scared of what those disarming, almost feminine eyes could make her feel. Yet still she had chosen to walk here today, although she had known that William would soon appear.

She halted, waiting for William to catch up with her. He was running along after her, his limbs flying around as though they were being pulled by a puppet master. When he finally skidded to a breathless halt beside her, he was made breathless once again by her beauty. Her fair golden hair curled prettily under her coif, gleaming as the little swirl of it rested against her neck. Her mesmerising eyes, the same as her sister's, but somehow smoother, less harsh, looked at him with something resembling amusement. But the fact that he could see her bosom heaving as her heart hammered betrayed her obvious affection for him.

"Mary, I have something I must ask you"

Mary smiled, knowing what the question would be. She would say no, of course – surely William knew that it was impossible?

"Do go on" she urged, her voice very soft, determined not to look at him.

"Mary, do come with me. Come with me to the country and be my bride. We could live a happy life, away from here" he quite suddenly grasped her hand, "Mary, my love...it is a cruel place here. You are so good and sweet and beautiful, you should not be here"

And we will sit upon rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

Mary looked at him at last, her eyes bright with the love she felt for him and the regret she felt at having to refuse.

"William, my dear, don't be a fool. My sister is Queen, she needs me here. My brother needs me to guide him, and Anne...oh, she may not say it, but I know she needs me too" Mary gently removed her hand from his. William reached out to caress a ringlet of hair instead, not at all put off.

"But I could make a life for you there, Mary. A life with all the good things about court, and none of the bad. You could learn to make your own dresses, pretty little gowns that would be made prettier with the knowledge that you made them with your own fair hands. You could learn to be a housewife – I seem to recall your sister teasing you once over your longing for a life in the country, raising a family, happily married. You only ever wanted romance. What is more romantic than a life in the country, wearing sweet home made gowns, milking cows, caring for your children and lying with a man who loves you?"

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant poises,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

Mary drew in a sharp breath – the picture was such as had once been painted in her own head, a dream that she had thrown away after her time as Henry's mistress and Anne's accession to the throne. And how could William truly believe that he loved her? She was high above him in rank, and although the few conversations they had shared had been some of the best moments of her life, did he really know her so well?

"You cannot possibly believe that you love me" Mary whispered, "Not after all I am, all I have done. I am a whore, reduced to shame, I am a widow, I am a mother kept away from her children, a sister to a fearless Queen, a womanising brother"

"And it is all those things that lead me to love you" William murmured in return, cupping her face in his hands, "I love you, Mary Boleyn, and I will not leave court without you"

Mary couldn't help beaming – the idea of an escape route was just so appealing, the idea of leaving so...wonderful. She wanted to get out, she didn't want to be here anymore. She didn't want to be the other Boleyn girl, the discarded whore.

"I love you, William Stafford" she kissed his cheek lightly, "And of course I'll leave with you"

The shepherds's swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.