The Stone Often Recoils On The Head

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.

God Forgive You, But I Never Can.

Much Suspected By Me, Nothing Proved Can Be

If I Follow The Inclination Of My Nature, It Is This: Beggar-woman And Single, Far Rather Than Queen And Married.

My Loving People, We Have Been Persuaded By Some That Are Careful Of Our Safety, To Take Heed How We Commit Ourself To Armed Multitudes For Fear Of Treachery; But I Assure You, I Do Not Desire To Live To Distrust My Faithful And Loving People. I Know I Have The Body But Of A Weak And Feeble Woman, But I Have The Heart And Stomach Of A King, And Of A King Of England Too, And Think Foul Scorn That Parma Or Spain, Or Any Prince Of Europe Should Dare To Invade The Borders Of My Realm.