followed this Lady, was clad in a surcoat of crimson velvet lined with ermine, like the robe of state, and her dark hair flowed loose over her shoulders.

She bowed three times before the King as she advanced, and then kneeled before him; and as the proper form of words was used, he placed the robe of state on her shoulders, and the coronet of gold upon her head. Nothing now remained but to make her a Queen; and for that last step she was prepared.

About this time, her old lover addressed to her this beautiful farewell: her greatness he could not follow: well might it have been for the spoiled child of fortune, had she occupied the place which another filled as the wife of the poet Wyatt.

Forget not yet the tried intent

Of such a truth as I have meant ;
My great travail, so gladly spent,
Forget not yet.

Forget not yet when first began
The weary life, ye know-since when
The suit, the service none can tell,

Forget not yet.

Forget not yet the great assays,

The cruel wrong, the scornful ways;
The painful patience and delays,
Forget not yet.

Forget not, oh! forget not this,

How long hath been and is

The love that never meant amiss,

Forget not yet.

Forget not then thine now approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved;

Forget not this.*

Wyatt's love was most probably poetical; but his friendship with Anne and the admiration he entertained for her graces and accomplishments are undoubted. She admired

* Poems of Sir Thomas Wyatt. The author of the memoir annexed to this volume disbelieves the story of his attachment to Anne Boleyn.

his poems, and enjoyed his society; to which talent, address, and personal advantages, combined to give a charm. He was also the most intimate friend of her unfortunate cousin, the elegant Lord Surrey. We might almost judge favourably of the poet's character, by his answer to the King when pressed to attend one of those revelries called masques; “Truly a man is not so wise by day that he should play the fool at night."

据

CHAPTER VI.

Whose mule, if it should be sold,

So gaily trapp'd with silver and gold,
And given to us for our share,

I durst ensure this one thing,
As for a competent living

This seven year we should not lack.

ROY'S SATIRE.

O trace the singular history and gorgeous life of the great Cardinal Wolsey, from its begin

ning, as the son of an Ipswich

butcher, to its close in the Abbey of Leicester, would require some goodly tomes. Having

attained a height of greatness and power,

that perhaps has been unequalled in a similar history, it was his lot to decline before the advancement of a woman, unskilled in politics, and possessed only of the influence which beauty, accomplishments, and strictly feminine talents can afford. In the words of his Gentleman Usher, who wrote his life, "the great estates and lords of the council lay in wait with my Lady Anne Boleyn to take the Cardinal in a snare.' He was, therefore, despatched on a mission on behalf of the Pope, confined then in the Castle of St. Angelo; and to confer with the King of France; who had been also in captivity. "Their intent," says Cavendish, "being to get him out of the King's daily presence, and by the aid of their chief mistress, my Lady Anne, to deprove him unto the king in his absence.”

The account given of the Cardinal's progress on this occasion will show something of