It almost seemed, as we have seen him play fast
and loose with the might of Warwick, and with that power, whether of
barons or of people, which any other prince of half his talents would
have trembled to arouse against an unrooted throne,--it almost seemed
as if he loved to provoke a danger for the pleasure it gave the brain
to baffle or the hand to crush it. His whole nature coveting excitement,
nothing was left to the beautiful, the luxurious Edward, already wearied
with pomp and pleasure, but what was unholy and forbidden. In his court
were a hundred ladies, perhaps not less fair than Anne, at least of a
beauty more commanding the common homage, but these he had only to smile
on with ease to win. No awful danger, no inexpiable guilt, attended
those vulgar frailties, and therefore they ceased to tempt. But here
the virgin guest, the daughter of his mightiest subject, the beloved
treasure of the man whose hand had built a throne, whose word had
dispersed an army--here, the more the reason warned, the conscience
started, the more the hell-born passion was aroused.

Like men of his peculiar constitution, Edward was wholly incapable of
pure and steady love. His affection for his queen the most resembled
that diviner affection; but when analyzed, it was composed of feelings
widely distinct. From a sudden passion, not otherwise to be gratified,
he had made the rashest sacrifices for an unequal marriage. His vanity,
and something of original magnanimity, despite his vices, urged him to
protect what he himself had raised,--to secure the honour of the subject
who was honoured by the king. In common with most rude and powerful
natures, he was strongly alive to the affections of a father, and the
faces of his children helped to maintain the influence of the mother.
But in all this, we need scarcely say that that true love, which is at
once a passion and a devotion, existed not. Love with him cared not for
the person loved, but solely for its own gratification; it was desire
for possession,--nothing more. But that desire was the will of a king
who never knew fear or scruple; and, pampered by eternal indulgence,
it was to the feeble lusts of common men what the storm is to the west
wind. Yet still, as in the solitude of night he paced his chamber, the
shadow of the great crime advancing upon his soul appalled even that
dauntless conscience. He gasped for breath; his cheeks flushed crimson,
and the next moment grew deadly pale. He