And lodged full low under this marble stone:
Ne never were his values so well known
Whilst he lived here, as now that he is gone.

No sun by day that ever saw him rest
Free from the toils of his so busy charge,
No night that harboured rancour in his breast,
Nor merry mood made Reason run at large.

His head a source of gravity and sense,
His memory a shop of civil art:
His tongue a stream of sugred eloquence,
Wisdom and meekness lay mingled in his heart." &c.

The literary propensities of Elizabeth have already come under our
notice: they had frequently served to divert her mind from the cares of
government; but in the state of unremitted anxiety occasioned by her
dread of the machinations relative to the queen of Scots, in which she
had found the first peer of her realm a principal actor, her thoughts,
even in the few leisure hours which she found means to bestow on these
soothing recreations, still hovered about the objects from which she
most sought to withdraw them.

The following sonnet of her composition will illustrate this remark: it
was published during her lifetime in Puttenham's "Arte of English
Poesie," and its authenticity, its principal merit, has never been
called in question.

SONNET _by Queen Elizabeth_.

The doubt of future foes exiles my present joy,
And wit me warns to shun such snares as threaten mine annoy.
For falsehood now doth flow, and subjects' faith doth ebb;
Which would not be if Reason ruled, or Wisdom weaved the web.
But clouds of toys untried do cloak aspiring minds,
Which turn to rain of late repent by course of changed winds.
The top of hope supposed the root of ruth will be;
And fruitless all their graffed guiles, as shortly ye shall see.
Those dazzled eves with pride, which great ambition blinds,
Shall be unseal'd by worthy wights whose foresight falsehood finds.
The Daughter of Debate that eke discord doth sow,
Shall reap no gain where former rule hath taught still peace to grow.
No foreign banish'd wight shall anchor in this port;
Our realm it brooks no strangers' force, let them elsewhere resort.
Our rusty sword with rest shall first his edge employ,
To poll their tops that seek such change, and gape for joy.

The house of commons, in which great dread and hatred of the queen of
Scots and her adherents now prevailed, showed itself stron