[on Thomas Seymour's Death:] This Day Died

I Cannot Find It In Me To Fear A Man Who Took Ten Years A Learning Of His Alphabet.

I Grieve And Dare Not Show My Discontent, I Love And Yet Am Forced To Seem To Hate, I Do, Yet Dare Not Say I Ever Meant, I Seem Stark Mute But Inwardly Do Prate. I Am And Not, I Freeze And Yet Am Burned, Since From Myself Another Self I Turned. My Care Is Like My Shadow In The Sun, Follows Me Flying, Flies When I Pursue It, Stands And Lies By Me, Doth What I Have Done.

If Our Web Be Framed With Rotten Handles, When Our Loom Is Well Nigh Done, Our Work Is New To Begin. God Send The Weaver True Prentices Again, And Let Them Be Denizens.

Affection! Affection Is False.

[to Parliament, When It Urged Her To Marry And Settle The Succession:] You Attend To Your Own Duties And I'll Perform Mine.