But this act of indiscretion seems to have aroused the personal jealousy of King Henry, for, on a very frivolous pretence, the Duke of York was imprisoned in Pevensey Castle for three months, in the course of which interval his Majesty’s displeasure had time to abate.
The following touching verses, which have been attributed to Henry VI., were probably written during his long imprisonment in the Tower:—
“Kingdoms are but cares;
State is devoid of stay;
Riches are ready snares,
And hasten to decay.
Who meaneth to remove the rock
Out of the slimy mud,
Shall mire himself and hardly ’ scape
The swelling of the flood.”
And there are preserved two sentences said to have been written and given by his Majesty to a knight who had the care of him. “Patience is the armour and conquest of the godly; this meriteth mercy, when causeless is suffered sorrow.” “Nought else is war but fury and madness, wherein is not advice, but rashness; not right, but rage, ruleth and reigneth.”
Henry VIII. prided himself on his literary attainments, a boast which was by no means unfounded. In 1536, offended at the manifesto of the pilgrims, he compounded a reply in which he expressed his astonishment that “ignorant people should go about to instruct him in matters of theology, who somewhat had been noted to be learned in what the faith should be,” indirectly referring to his own book against Luther, which had procured for him from the Pope the title of “Defender of the Faith.” Indeed, his Majesty is said not only to have been a great reader, but to have been conversant with several languages; and, whatever his other defects, he was an accomplished student—his work “The Glass of Truth” alone being another proof of his theological attainments. He was among the best physicians of his time, and he acted as “his own engineer, inventing improvements in artillery, and new constructions in shipbuilding.”
Anne Boleyn is said to have composed her own dirge after her condemnation:—
“Oh, death! rock me asleep,
Bring on my quiet rest,
Let pass my very guiltless ghost
Out of my careful breast.
Ring out the doleful knell;
Let its sound my death tell—
For I must die,
There is no remedy,
For now I die.
My pains who can express?
Alas! they are so strong,
My dolour will not suffer strength
My life for to prolong!
Alone in prison strange,
I wail my destiny;
Woe worth this cruel hap, that I
Should taste this misery!
Farewell my pleasures past,
Welcome my present pain,
I feel my torments so increase
That life cannot remain.