Undimmed to us—a righteous heritage—
This crown which we, my sister, must maintain
Or die: this crown, true safeguard of our people,
Their charter’s seal—crushes our peace for ever.
All crowns, since Christ wore His, are lined with thorns.”
And again, as the melancholy gains upon her:
“Mary. Am I mad?
Think you I’m mad? I have been used to scorn,
Neglect, oppression, self-abasement, aye—
My mother’s scorching heritage of woe!