THE Illustrious Lovers, OR PRINCELY ADVENTURES IN THE COURTS OF ENGLAND and FRANCE.  
CONTAINING Sundry Transactions relating to Love-Intrigues, Noble Enterprises, and Gallantry, being an Historical Account of the Famous Loves of Mary sometimes Queen of France (Daughter to Henry the 7th.) and Charles Brandon the Renowned Duke of Suffolk: Discovering the Glory and Grandeur of both Nations.  
Written Original in French, and now Done into English.  
LONDON, Printed for William Whitwood next door to the Crown-Tavern in Ducklane, near West-Smith-Field, 1686.   

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1. REflections upon Ancient and Modern Philosophy, Moral and Natural, together with the use that there is to be made thereof. Treating of the Egyptians, Arabians, Grecians, Romans, etc. Philosophers, as Thales, Zeno, Socrates, Plato, Pythagoras, Aristotle, Epicurus, etc. Also the English, Germane, French, Spanish, etc. As Bacon, boil, Des Cartes, Hobbs, Vanhelmont, Gassendus, Gallileus, Harvey, Paracelsus, Marcennus, Digby. Translated from the French by A.L.  
2. A Collection of Apothegms, or Say of the Ancients, Collected out of Plutarch, Diogenes Laertius, Elian, Atheneus, Stobaeus, Macrobius, Erasmus, and others. Wherein the Manners and Customs of the Greeks, Romans, and Lacedæmonians, are Represented. To which is Added several pleasant Apothegms, from Modern Authors.  
3. A Rich Cabinet of Inventions, being Receipts and Conceits of several Natures, containing more than 130. Natural and Artificial Conclusions all Profitable and Pleasant. Collected out of Alexis, Mizaldus, Wecker, and the Practice of John White, Practitioner in the Mathematics.   

THE English Princess, OR THE Duchess QUEEN. The First PART.  
THE Monarchy of England having been long in dispute betwixt the two Roses, the Red of the House of Lancaster, and the White of that of York, fell at length to the peaceable inheritance of the former; and never appeared in greater splendour, than in the time of Henry the Eighth.  
This Prince being of a most sharp and piercing wit, by study and learning advanced daily more and more in knowledge; and was no sooner at the age of eighteen Crowned King, but that he seemed already to hold in his hands the Fate of all Europe. All that was to be blamed in him, was his love of pleasures, which in progress of time got the Dominion over him, and some kind of sickleness, the blemish of several of his Family: he had a delicate and well-proportioned body, a countenance of singular beauty, and shown always such an Air of Majesty and Greatness, as inspired both love and reverence in all that beheld him.  
At his Assumption to the Crown, when his heart was not as yet subjected to the pleasures of sense, it was but a mere scruple of conscience that made him unwilling to marry Catharine of Spain, his Brother's Widow, to whom the late King his Father had betrothed him three years before his Death; no engagements in love with any other Mistresses at that time being any ways the cause of his aversion. But two of his chief Ministers, who had been formerly private Pensioners of Isabel of Castille, having represented to him the losses that he was likely to sustain by a misunderstanding with Spain, easily cleared all his doubts: so that at length he made use of the dispensation, which with much difficulty had been obtained at Rome for his marriage; and 〈◊〉 League, which at the same time King Ferdinand his Brother-in-law proposed to him, with Pope Julius the Second, the Emperor Maximilian, and the Swisseses, against Lovis the Twelfth, King of France, filled him with so high an opinion of himself, that there hath been nothing more lovely than the first years of his marriage and Reign. And indeed he gave himself so wholly to jollity and mirth, amidst the great designs which he contrived, that his Example being a pattern to his Court, it became so completely gallant, that the Ladies themselves thought it no offence to decency, publicly to own their Votaries.  
The Princess Mary his younger Sister, as she excelled in Quality, so she exceeded the rest in Beauty. Margaret the eldest married to the King of Scotland, had only the advantage of her in Birth; for in Beauty her share was so great, that there was never any Princess who deserved more to be loved. The qualities of her mind, and Character of her Parts will 〈…〉 appear in the sequel of this 〈◊〉 ●●●se; and as to her body, nothing was wanting that might render it perfect: her complexion was fair, her soft skin enriched with that delicate whiteness, which the Climate of England bestows commonly on the Ladies of that Country, and the round of her face inclining near to a perfect Oval. Though her eyes were not the greatest, yet they possessed all that could be desired in the loveliest eyes in the World. They were quick with mildness, and so full of love, that with a single glance they darted into the coldest breasts, all the flames that sparkled in themselves. Her mouth was not inferior to her eyes, for being very little, and shut with lips of a perpetual Vermilion, in its natural frame it presented an object, not to be paralleled for Beauty; and when again it opened, whether to laugh or speak, it always assorded thousands of new Charms. What has been said of her pretty mouth, may be likewise said of her fair hands; which by their nimbleness and dexterity in the smallest actions, seemed to embellish themselves: but more might be spoken of the Sovereign Beauty of her Neck, which when age had brought it to perfection, became the masterpiece of Nature. Her Stature was none of the tallest; but such as Ladies ought to have to please and delight; and her gate, address, and presence, promised so much, that it is no wonder that the Charms of Nature, accompanied with a tender and passionate heart, gained her before the age of fifteen the Conquest of most of her Father's Subjects.  
Before she was complete twelve years of age, she was promised in marriage to Prince Charles of Austria, heir to the Kingdom of Castille, and since named Charles the Fifth. For Lowis the Twelfth of France having frustrated that young Prince of the hopes of marrying the Princess Claudia, his daughter, by designing her for the Duke of Valois, his presumptive heir; notwithstanding the natural aversion that Anne of Brittany his Queen had against him; Henry the Seventh no sooner understood that the alliance of the house of Austria with France was unlikely to succeed, but he began to think on means of contracting it with England. Richard Fox Bishop of Winchester, was therefore sent to Calais to negotiate in his name that marriage with the Deputies of Flanders, who thereupon concluded a Treaty to the satisfaction of all Parties. But the alteration of the King changed all these measures. Henry the Eighth having in a manner against his will married the Aunt of the young Archduke, found not in that second Union with Spain, all the advantages which his Father seemed to foresee: and whether it was already an effect of repentance, as some termed it; or that he had in it the particular design, which men had ground to suspect since; he many times in discourse approved the ancient custom of his Kingdom, of not giving in marriage the Daughters or Sisters of the Kings out of the Island, for which he was so applauded by all, that even those of his Council, who were the least complaisant, made it by little and little, (as he did) a reason of State to forget the proposals of Calais. So that now the Princess Mary, being free from the engagement of the late King her Father, and the great Men of England eyeing her as a blessing to be enjoyed by the most happy, she found herself amidst a crowd of lovers, who in the peace and quiet of the Kingdom, made it their whole business to disquiet themselves.  
Amongst the most sparkling and assiduous pretenders, Edward Grace, Son to the Marquis of Dorset, and Henry Bourchier, Son to Thomas Earl of Essex, appeared the chief: Charles Son to Sir Charles Somerset, Lord High Chamberlain, came next; and Thomas Howard, Son to Thomas Earl of Surrey, Lord High Treasurer, with William Talbot, Son to George Earl of Shrewsbury, Steward of the King's Household, put in amongst the rest. These five Rivals being already very considerable by the Quality of their Fathers, all chief Ministers of State, immediately declared their pretensions with magnificence suitable to the Dignity of the fair Princess, to whom they made love: they were all alike well received, and the courteous and obliging humour of the Lady Mary, made every one of them easily believe in a short time to become her greatest favourite. But love blinded their eyes; for a sixth and more secret Rival gained the prize that all contended for: and though his Quality did not seem to capacitate him to contest with them in any thing, yet the King's favour, and his own worth largely supplied what otherways he wanted.  
His name was Charles the pretended Son of Robert Brandon, of a noble Family in Suffolk, and an unblemished life. Yet he had greater respect given him, as being the Nephew of William Brandon, and Edward Hastings; the former of great Renown in the Battle of Bosworth, where carrying the Standard of Henry the Seventh, he was killed by Richard the Usurper himself, as he endeavoured to stop his flight: and the other still alive was no less famous in the Battle of Black-heath, where the seditious Flammock, with the Rebels of Kent and Cornhill, were overthrown.  
To this Uncle by the Mother it was, that he owed the greatest part of his merit, having had from him a most ingenious and liberal education; for after the death of those that were believed to be his Parents, who died in that fatal plague, which made so great havoc in England in the beginning of that Age, he was always the sole object of his care. His supposed Mother named Anne Hastings, a woman of great Parts, and sufficient Beauty to make her the subject of some slanderous and detracting Tongues, had been pitched upon for Nurse to the King, not only because of the noble blood of which she was descended, but also of that to which she was allied: but at first she made some difficulty of accepting the charge, which was then only imputed to the haughtiness inspired into her, either by the nobility of her extraction, of which she seemed always a little vain, or by the remains of some self-love which she still retained, though she had other reasons for it. Nor would she undertake that care, till she had assurance that the child whom she called her Son, should be bred with her at Court. And Henry the Seventh, having afterward entertained her at Court, in consideration of the services that he had received of her Brother-in-law, and did daily receive from her own Brother; and finding the young Henry much more vigorous and healthy than Arthur Prince of Wales and the Princess Margaret his two first Children, which gave him reason to congratulate his having so good a Nurse; it happened luckily that six years after she having proved with child, at the same time that the Queen was big of the Princess Mary; he would have her employed again in the bringing up of that fourth child, that was to be born to him; notwithstanding that Robert Brandon, her Husband, being at that time troubled with some peevish fits of jealousy, designed to carry her back into the Country. By this means Charles having known the Princess Mary from the Cradle, had always, as being her Nurse's Son, freer access unto her, than his Rivals with all their greatness could pretend to. Besides this, during the absence of Edward Hastings, who alone remained alive to take the care of him; the Duchess of Bedford, chief Governess of the Children of the Royal Family, having taken him into protection, allowed him free liberty at all hours of the day to visit her apartment: and the Lady Latimer Sub-governess, who desired still to be thought young and fair, and was not far beyond the bounds of either, entertained for her part somewhat more than esteem for the lovely Brandon. All put together, gave him great Privileges with the young Princess; and Henry the Eighth by promoting daily the affairs of Old Hastings, to whom he was to be sole heir, seemed sufficiently to authorize all the ambition that the young Nephew was capable of. He had already great intimacy with the Prince, and was the Confident of his most secret Pleasures; and as he daily heaped Favours and Honours upon him, he was often heard say, That he could not do too much for the handsomest Gentleman in his Kingdom: besides, he was beautiful like himself, and of the same age and stature; his Mien and Presence shown even somewhat more accomplished; and by the sweetness of his disposition, and generosity, in many rencounters he gained the very esteem of his envious competitors. The too young age and immaturity of Princess Mary of England was the reason, that during the Reign of the late King, and until the project of her marriage with the Prince of Spain, he had not discovered to her his love, but by looks and sighs, whereof in all probability she understood not as yet the secret language: but in a conjuncture so troublesome to a lover as that was, taking counsel only of his passion, that he might bewail his destiny, he spoke to her in a more intelligible strain.  
This happened at Windsor, where Henry the Seventh drawing toward his end, desired only to be attended with a small Train. The satisfaction that the Princess might have to be one day Wife to a King of Spain, served for pretext to Brandon; who passionately told her, That as it was most reasonable that she should rejoice to marry a Prince, who was to carry so many Crowns; so it was no less, that he should grieve to lose her for ever: at length lifting his eyes and hands to Heaven, he mournfully cried, That it was very terrible and cruel for such a wretch as he, to love the Daughter of his King more than himself! Neither the vehemency of this Action, nor the boldness of the Discourse at least surprised the young Princess; for being so little accustomed to keep her distances with Brandon, she dreamt of no more but wont familiarity, and fancied (as he might well wish) that his expressions proceeded only from fear of being separated from her: so that without diving farther into the mystery, wherein as yet she was not very skilful, and finding nothing in his discourse but what was obliging; she had the goodness to answer him, that it was possible the Propositions of Calais might not take effect; and that he ought not to be afflicted before the time. Some days after she started to him again the same discourse, and soothed him by all the ways that her age could possibly imagine, in so much as she vowed and protested against the marriage that he was in fear of; and it must indeed be granted that she omitted nothing that might give content to his mind, or fuel to his passion: though it cannot be imagined that her innocent age at that time entertained any thoughts of love Henry the Seventh in the mean time returned to spend his Winter at London, where dying in the spring, he made place for his Son, who being Crowned by the name of Henry the Eighth, began with many favours to testify his esteem for Brandon.  
The first instance of the confidence that he shown him (which he imparted to none, but him alone during the Ceremonies of his marriage; and which appeared the more satisfactory to this favourite, that being then honoured with the office of chief Ranger of England, he found himself in a condition of making his advantage of it), was, the design he had not to marry the Princess his Sister to any out of his Kingdom. He told him, that it was one of the ancientest maxims of State, and possibly the best; and to hint to him that he himself might have some interest in that design, he added, looking on him with a favourable air, that he should endeavour to choose a person whose Family was not so considerable as to become suspected: so that the marriage projected between his young Sister, and the young Archduke, should not take effect; and that, he having with much reluctancy married the Aunt of that Prince, he desired him not for a Brother-in-law. But the matter beginning to be divulged, and the general applause, wherewith it was received by all, opening the eyes of the most part of the young Court-gallants, BRANDON perceived not at length that facility in it, which appeared to him at first. Love is a great Master, and there is no virtue wherein it instructs not true Lovers, when it intends to render them acceptable to the person beloved. He then, so far from flattering himself with the pleasant thoughts that he had entertained, and which so many others seemed to entertain as well as himself, laying aside all consideration of self-love, and not reflecting on his danger in speaking to the Princess contrary to the Sentiments of the KING; told her, that she should no more dream of the Crowns of CASTILLE and ARRAGON; and that the designs as to her, were far different from that. He immediately discovered all, as a person really devoted to her Service: he protested against that State-policy, to which she was to be sacrificed: told her, that he had rather die, than see her a Subject in England, when one of the greatest Princes of Europe desired her in marriage; and with a Resentment equal to the favour received, reflecting on the complaisance wherewith she was once pleased to conceal from him all her ambition, he subjoined, that he was become ambitious for her; and that desiring, at what rate so ever, to restore to her again, what she had so liberally bestowed on him; he disowned all that he had had the boldness to say at Windsor, against her marriage with the Prince of Spain. His sighs spoke the rest with more passionateness than at that time he desired; and although Mary of England was not full Twelve years old, yet she so well understood the language of that passionate Lover, and her heart was so disposed to admit a flame, that having wiped away the Tears that trickled from her lovely eyes, and done as much for BRANDON, she prayed him not to torment himself for the future: adding, with glances that sparkled goodness, that she had rather see him afflicted at Windsor for the project of her marriage, than in London vexed at the rapture of it.  
It may be thought strange, that at such an age she was so sensible. But it may be likewise said, that she being of a soft and sweet disposition, and inclined naturally to mirth, it was but an agreeable surprise that triumphed only on her gentle and cheerful humour. The pleasure of being beloved, was the only thing that made her love, her views went no farther; and love which is in that manner communicated betwixt young persons, makes the delusions of sense sometimes so powerful over them, that by that means alone it betrays them before they know what it is.  
It is not then to be wondered at, that if the Princess Mary being by a first Lover drawn into some pleasant mistake, the other pretenders who made love to her, after that the intention of the KING became known, appeared not in her eyes to be so deserving as they were; who with great assiduity having served her for the space of two years, with all the gallantry and pomp that the Tranquillity of the Kingdom enabled them to employ, at length discovered the root and fountain of their misfortune; and seeing love sometimes breaks off upon a slight, and is sometimes converted into fury, the wiser desisted from their suit, and the others united against their common Enemy. Of the first sort were Howard and Talbot: but Grace, Bourchier and Somerset vowed the death of BRANDON. They considered not that such an attempt would expose the lovely Princess to public Calumny, and themselves to inevitable disgrace, or perhaps to something worse. Jealousy that reigned in them, suffered them not to make any such reflections; and they had never escaped the risk they ran, had not fortune by forsaking them in their enterprise, taken greater care of their lives, than they themselves were able to do.  
The love that the King had for Cecile Blunt, Daughter to the Lord Latimer, which began before his marriage, and grew greater daily by enjoyment, possessed the chief place in his heart, notwithstanding of the distractions occasioned him by the League; into which after many delays he entered at last against the KING of FRANCE: yet whether it was for the sake of the QUEEN, whom he would not put out of humour, whilst the troublesome inconveniencies of an imaginary conception renewed her grief for the loss of her first Child; or because that young Lady lived in the retinue of the Princess his Sister, he gave but very few marks of it. On the contrary he seemed to make Courtship to the young Countess of Derby, and some other Beauties at Court, thereby to divert the observation of the more curious; and although the Lady Latimer, more ambitious than prudent, was accessary to her Daughter's slips; yet that afforded him not all the possible advantages he desired. It behoved him often to steal his opportunities by night, and to pass in disguise through a great part of his Palace in London, and pleasant House at Greenwich, where the apartment of the Princess his Sister happened always to be cross to his designs; in which he never trusted any but one domestic Servant, two of his Guards, and the faithful BRANDON. He made even commonly use of that favourite to conceal himself under his name; and without considering the wrong he might do to the Princess, these Night-rambles passed for the feats of BRANDON, that went to visit the Princess Mary. However, he would not that any should say so much, when his company were surprised, and could not avoid the eyes of some watchful spy; and as it behoved him to colour these proceed with some intrigue of love, because it would have been hard to have persuaded men that any thing else was in play, orders were given to insinuate, that it was the lovely BRANDON that paid his services to the Lady Latimer. But people were not always so credulous: they made a little too bold with that Lady's reputation, and the mind of man commonly passes over things which are so easily discovered, that it may pry into those that are studiously kept from its knowledge. There were severals therefore that observing the obliging manner how the Princess treated BRANDON in public, and knowing besides somewhat of the secret visits, which he never rendered to her in her apartment, but in company of the KING, believed that he made them alone. The rumour of this began to spread by degrees, and though being vexed thereat, he made appear to the KING his Master the consequences thereof, yet that voluptuous KING was too much wedded to his pleasures to renounce them; and BRANDON himself began at length to taste such pleasures, as he could not have found in any other course of life. The Lady Latimer, who was desperately in love with him, essaying by all ways of compliance to merit his affection, allowed him great liberty with the Princess Mary. She let him see the lovely Princess oftener than once asleep in the secret of Night; and fearing nothing of the KING, who was then commonly taken up with her Daughter, because all these things seemed only to be done in attending of him, she left him many times alone in her Chamber; or at most but accompanied by a Maid of her own intrigues, called Judith Kiffin, which was thought worse than to have left them together upon their bare word. However the matter be, the pleasure of seeing Mary of England, as he did, made him at length speak but faintly of what the KING did in prejudice of her reputation; and though he always dreaded the consequences of those frolicks, yet by little and little he accustomed himself not to find fault with the occasions.  
Matters being in this state; and the QUEEN by degrees recovering her health, and appearing more cheerful, the Court full of Mistresses and Lovers, found their entertainment in the various emergents, that love every moment occasioned amongst them; when Grace, Bourchier, and Somerset, impatient of losing more sighs, resolved to trouble the felicity of BRANDON. They had already for some days set spies to observe him, or otherways lay in wait for him themselves, upon notice given them, that he went almost every night to the apartment of the Princess. Their own eyes had seen him, and they knew the byways he used to take, though they had not discovered that he was with the KING, or in the least suspected it; so careful was that Prince to pass unknown. They placed themselves therefore in Ambush at a backdoor in the Palace, by which BRANDON, the fifth in company, had just before entered; and fearing no impediment in their design, unless by the Rancounter of some Germans, who had remained at London after the conclusion of the League: (whom they had already agreed among themselves to accuse of the disorders which themselves intended to commit;) though Grace was that night indisposed; yet the other two being more fiery, and unwilling to let slip this occasion, they rallied together to the number of seven. All things appeared to them at first in as fair a way as they desired. No body molested them in the quarter where they had posted themselves, and the Moon being overclouded, gave no more light but what was enough for them to distinguish themselves by the marks that they carried. So that the KING returning from his visit, hardly had he that kept the key opened the door, when Bourchier presented a Pistol to the two Yeomen of the Guard that came out first. Stand, said he, where is BRANDON? Somerset immediately in the same manner put the question to them. But the two Guards so much the more daring, that they had the KING for a witness of their Courage, made them answer only with their Carabines; and both of them firing at the same instant that Bourchier and Somerset fired, as there were but two reports heard, so there were but two shot that did execution. That of Somerset passing under the hand of the Yeoman of Guard that stood opposite to him, was carried too high; and Bourchiers only grazed upon the others Cassock. But if one of the Carabines miss Somerset, who by good fortune kneeled on one knee, the other bruised the shoulder of Bourchier; and being both loaded with several Bullets, killed three of their men that stood behind them. The KING in the mean time, who feared nothing so much as to be discovered, considering the boldness of the attempt, and perceiving two of the contrary party, who remained, betake themselves to flight; caused quickly the other door of the Palace, by which he was to enter, to be opened. Brandon having drawn, but finding none to fight with, came shortly after; and the two Yeomen of Guard that knew the King's intention as well as he, having immediately disarmed Somerset and Bourchier, followed him. This was the fortune of these Rivals, who found all the difficulty imaginable to get home, the one sorely wounded, and the other sound beaten, and both in extreme despair. The KING was no sooner where he desired to be, but being furiously incensed against them, he resolved and vowed their ruin; yet Brandon interposing, stopped this first ebullition of choler, by representing to him, that in punishing the guilty according to their merit, he would discover the secret; and to that prevalent reason adding considerations that concerned the Princess, he at length persuaded him that they had received usage hard enough to make them capable of some favour. Insomuch that the whole matter passed for an unlucky skuffle that Bourchier and Somerset had had with some drunken Germans.  
At least the Earl of Essex was ordered to publish as much the day following, and to make it the more credible, strangers were forbidden to walk abroad in the night upon pain of death. None but the Rivals of BRANDON whispered secretly what they knew; but by the absolute Command which the KING had given to the Earl of Essex, that he should impute the wound of his Son to those who were no ways concerned in it, and by the fierce threats he made to that Earl for the suspicions that he endeavoured to insinuate against the Princess his Sister, so high, as that he replied in rage, that knowing better than he what her carriage was, it was only in respect of his age that he pardoned so insolent a Calumny. In a word, by the secret rumour that began to spread, that the King himself was a Party, they by little and little diving into his intrigue with Cecile Blunt, found all their Fortune's good, so that a private reason hindered him from taking public revenge. Grace went away with the Marquis of Dorset, his Father, who carried six thousand English to Fontarabie, to assist the King of Spain in invading Guyenne according to an Article of the League. Howard and Talbot, though they were not (no more than he) at that fatal Rancounter, begged leave to serve in the same Army; and Somerset went to Scotland upon some pretext of his own. So that there remaining none but Bourchier, whose wound kept him long from the public; Brandon found himself in a few days delivered from all his Enemies. But in their absence they did him more mischief than they had done in person; and whether it was an effect of their malice, or of the sequel of things, which being with difficulty concealed time brings to light at length, men began to speak more openly than they had been accustomed to do, of the Amours of the Princess and Brandon. The King was so far from being offended herewith, that he seemed rather to applaud it: some who impertinently discourse of the carriage of Princes, wherein there is not always so great ground of reasoning as is believed, imagined that all that he did that way was a politic fetch, to break the Grandees of his Kingdom of the designs they might have for his Sister; others who are not always willing to infect the Court with false notions, kept themselves to what they saw; and more wisely believed that it was only out of a natural complaisance that he entertained for all sorts of gallantry.  
But though all that was said of the Princess and Brandon, redounded still to his Honour; yet he reaped nothing from it but vexation and grief: neither could his truly generous and noble soul relish that honour which he received at the cost of what he loved. He was far more affected with the reproaches that the Princess Mary might have talked of him, though indeed she never made any of him On the contrary he having sometimes expressed himself to her concerning these things in a very sorrowful manner, she had always the goodness to tell him, that he should follow the example, and not trouble himself with the discourse of people. But this obliging carriage served only to increase his pain: and as two hearts that are truly smitten are unwilling to be behind in duty to one another; so he concerned himself the more in the glory of the Princess, that she seemed to slight it for the love of him. Insomuch that falling very pensive and melancholic, notwithstanding the pains that she took to comfort him; and having no other thoughts but to leave the Kingdom, that he might remove the occasions of detraction, he acquainted my Lord Hastings his Uncle, to whom he told all his affairs, with his design. He being a fierce Old Soldier, took him at first up sharply for the little Courage he made show of; afterward falling in discourse about the Earls of Surrey and Essex, he told him that the race of howard's and Bourchiers was indeed ancient, and raised to vast Estates, and eminent Dignities by the merits of many predecessors; but that yet they were not the only nobles, who could brag of as great antiquity, and the glory of as many heroical Actions; nor that they had any such advantages as might give them ground to insult over the Brandon's and Hastings; and that therefore it behoved him not at all for the raillery of some jealous Rivals, to abandon the Prospects which both the King and Princess did countenance. However all this made no great impression on the mind of Brandon. He adhered to his resolution, and had already taken his measures for withdrawing; when at length the good Old man Hastings being unable to retain him by his reasons, found himself obliged to discover to him what he had promised never to reveal.  
The resolution was doubtless great, and cost the Old man dear: besides the weakness of old age, he had more reason than any other to be dismayed, which made him long complain of the violence that his Nephew put upon him, before he began that dangerous discourse. And that he might in some manner prepare him for it, having brought out a manuscript of all Merlin's Prophecies, he made him read that which was the cause of the death of the Duke of Clarence, conceived in these words, 
When the White Rose shall the Red subdue,  
G. Of that race shall change its Hue,  
And the Red o'er it shall bloom anew.  
There shall remain of the White stock  
But one bud fallen on Hemlock:  
Yet too much zeal doth oft annoy,  
For an innocent maid shall it destroy.   
When he had read the Prophecy, the ancient Gentleman tracing matters as far back as was necessary, explained to him the beginning of the prediction according as the event had made it evident. In the first verse he let him see the Victory of Edward of York, designed by the White Rose, over HENRY the sixth of Lancaster, who carried the Red. In the second he discovered to him the deplorable mistake of that Victorious Prince, who having caused his younger Brother George Duke of Clarence to be put to death in a pipe of Malmsey, because the first letter of his name was a fatal G. gave his other Brother Richard Duke of Gloucester, (of whom he had no suspicion) by his last will, opportunity of murdering his two Sons; and in the third he shown him the return of Prince Henry Earl of Richmont, who in the blood of that Tyrant, made the red Roses flourish again. But having thus interpreted the three first verses, which had given matter of much discourse in that time, Hastings his countenance changed colour; and being deeply affected with the importance of the secret, that he was about to reveal, concluding in a fret what with reason he had begun; he told him, that the world had indeed sufficiently understood by the event of things, the beginning of the Prophecy of Merlin, but that few understood the rest.  
That though the flatterers of the late King had persuaded him, that by the death of the only Son of Richard the Tyrant, which happened by a fall, the prediction was fulfilled and explicated, because that he having fallen in a place where Hemlock grew, an inconsiderate person, who came running after, thinking to wipe and stop the blood of his wound with that herb, had hastened his death; yet that he understood somewhat more than these flatterers knew; and that the cruel death of the poor Earl of Warwick, Son of the Duke of Clarence, had not fulfilled the Prophecy either: but that that unfortunate Prince having escaped from the superstitious scrupulosity of one of his Uncles, and being confined to a Castle by the other, was secretly married to a Daughter of Charles Hemlock, Brother-in-law to himself, who commanded in that place; by whom he had a Son, and that, not to hold him long in suspense, he was that Son.  
At these words, Brandon cried out, as if he had been struck with Thunder, and the Lord Hastings his Uncle in vain endeavoured to persuade him, that though he had reason to be surprised at the relation, yet he ought to believe it; for he still maintained that it was but a tale devised to excite in him greater Courage. At length Hastings, by reason of the sensible danger to which he exposed himself by discovering that secret, began to gain ground upon him. He made appear to him, that he must either have been a fool, or weary of life, to have invented such a fable; and more fully to convince him, he recounted to him the whole story of the marriage of the Earl of Warwick his Father; and that Anne Hemlock his real Mother, dying in Childbed of him, the Lady Brandon substituted him in place of one of her Children which just then died, having been born but a few days before him: He put him in mind of what he had been told heretofore of the repugnance that the Lady made, whom he believed to be his Mother, when she was invited to be Nurse to the King. And then perceiving him to be a little moved, he had no great difficulty to convince him, that he was the secret cause of that unwillingness, which was so variously discoursed of amongst people; and adding to this several other passages of his education, which being all of the same strain and character, gave evidence enough, that there had always been some mystery in his fortune, he passed them but slightly over, that at the same time he might insinuate, that if he loved his life, it behoved him not to remember them. He only hinted to him, that the secret of his birth should encourage him to resist his Rivals, who believed themselves better descended than he; and that if he could keep the secret as well as the Prince his Father had done, who had seen him a hundred times out of his prison-Windows, and who went to death, accompanied with Friar Patrick, without speaking a word of it, heaven possibly had designed him for great matters. That, after all, he was the only remaining bud of the White Rose, whereof Merlin spoke in his Prophecy; and that his Mother's name so plainly expressed by the word Hemlock, made it past all doubt: seeing that in effect the Blood of York was fallen into that of Hemlock by his Birth. But that these following words of the ginger, 
Yet too much zeal doth oft annoy,  
For an innocent maid shall it destroy.  put him in great perplexity. That though the punishment of Simonel, and death of Peter Warbeck, who gave themselves out for Princes of the House of York, were instances terrible enough to hinder him from bragging of his extraction: yet as it was his opinion that he should continue his love to the Princess, so that passion made him very apprehensive. That he imagined already that he would discover to her, all that had been told him; and that though she might still love him, yet it might too really happen, that she should become the innocent maid that might destroy him, if he concealed not from her, as well as from every body else, that important secret.  
Hastings thus ending his discourse, fell on his knees to Brandon, that he might once in his life render him the respect which the interest of his safety suffered him not to pay in any other place, and that he might beseech him never to entertain thoughts that any such honours were due to him. But what difficulty soever this new Prince of York had at first to believe it, yet he found at length all things that had been told him so well circumstantiated, and so conform to the inclinations of his heart, that he had no more power to doubt of the truth of what was told him. He promised to be cautious, and to conceal his birth; and the Lord Hastings, who was still his great Uncle by the Mother-side, died shortly after, either of old age; or for fear lest the secret which he had revealed should be discovered.  
In the mean time Brandon, whom we must for some time still name so, found his Courage by little and little raised by the knowledge of what he was. He thereby grew more brisk and agreeable with the Princess; more courteous and majestic with others; and by the prudent management of the estate left him by Hastings, became so considerable, that the King himself took pleasure to see him employ new measures, one day to deserve all that he wished him the enjoyment of. On the other hand his Rivals, being returned from the Pyrenean hills, where the designs of the King of Spain, who had fallen upon Navarre, hindered them from achieving any great exploits, found him again of an humour less disposed to yield to them than formerly. Somerset after his return from Scotland, could not regain that height upon him, which he always pretended to before; and Bourchier cured of his wound, durst never on that account express to him the least discontent. They all appeared to have submitted themselves to their fortunes; and whilst Howard and Talbot, the one made Admiral, and the other Master of the Horse, stifled their love by the satisfaction of their ambition; Grace and the rest found it impossible for them to delight their eyes, but by living in good correspondence with Brandon. Their care therefore was only to outdo him in greatness of services, and obsequiousness towards the Princess: he was the man that was most assiduous that way, who gave demonstration of greatest complaisance; and there happened some days, when it▪ seemed that that Conduct might prove successful, they obtained thereby at least more access to her: and although through the favours which she was pleased sometimes to show them, they perceived too well, that they had no share in her affection; yet at what rate soever they resolved to persist in rendering her their Services. So true it is, that with small pains and little care, a lovely person is able to produce great effects in the minds of those who are captivated with its beauty. Insomuch that all these Rivals began to live together with less contention; and contributing severally to the public pomp, whilst the preparations for a War with France were vigorously carried on, there was nothing to be seen at London but Plays, Horse-races, Balls and Dancing, where the Ladies in rich dresses setting off the beauty, which might procure them praise and esteem, obliged likewise their Lovers to employ their greatest advantages. On these occasions, the lovely Brandon gained signal honour; and whether it was for his good mien, or his dexterity in all the exercises of body, there was no Gentleman in the Kingdom that seemed not his inferior. So that amongst so many competitors, who contended with him for the favour of the Princess, there was not any so fortunate as to gain the least of it to his prejudice; and though Edward Strafford, the young Duke of Buckingham, and the Earl of Kildare, Son to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, both of them lovely and handsome Gentlemen, had newly declared themselves his Rivals, yet it was without either jealousy or disquiet to him: Marry of Lancaster adored by all, had no passion for any but him.  
But amidst the pleasures, by which the Court of England, the most gallant and pompous of that age, prepared so sumptuously for the War of France; the death of Cecile Blunt, Daughter to the Lord Latimer, occasioned there great alteration. Her Mother seeming comfortless, as women of her humour affect always to appear, retired into the Country. The Duchess of Bedford falling deaf, and oppressed with many other infirmities of old age, took likewise the occasion to withdraw. The Countess of Pembrock was put in her place, until the Arrival of Princess Margaret of York, Duchess of Salisbury, Daughter of the unfortunate Duke of Clarence, and herself as unfortunate in the sequel, as her Brother the Earl of Warwick. The King sometime before, for reasons of state, had designed her for that charge; and the Lady Dacres was ordered to supply the place of the Lady Latimer, until she were recovered from her grief; so that there remained of the ancient servants of the Princess, hardly any but Judith Kiffen, who being the most dexterous person in the world for that service, and lying commonly at the foot of her bed, she was become too useful to her, to let her be removed: and that revolution in the Family of the Princess Mary was a forerunner of the disorder which shortly appeared in the mind of the King. What care soever he had had to conceal his love for his late Mistress, he had not the power to dissemble his affliction for her death. He began to condemn the intrigues of his Court, with which he had always used to make himself merry. He went so far as to defeat the measures of several Lovers, by giving them new employments under pretext of the War of France; and though Brandon met not with so great crosses, yet he was one of the first that perceived the King to be out of humour: when being no more the Confident of his affliction, as he had been of his pleasures, he saw a new favourite admitted into his place, one Thomas Woolsey, Bishop of Lincoln, to whom Richard Fox, Bishop of Winchester, had left vast riches at his death.  
This man of low Birth, but sublime Parts, as sometimes bad men are, knew very well, that HENRY the Eight, notwithstanding the great Qualities which rendered him formidable to his neighbours, was a restless Prince; and that being unable after the hurry of business to remain idle and unactive, he stood in need of some amusing toy, that might refresh his mind by seizing his heart. In a word, he understood that repose being uneasy to him without pleasures and wantonness, he must needs be provided of women; and that possibly was the reason that it was said, that to comfort him for the death of the Mistress, whom he had just before lost, he made no scruple to advise him to bestow his affection with all expedition on some other. It was besides alleged, that he himself being smitten with the lovely eyes of the Princess Mary, and not so foolish as to expect any enjoyment of her, had wrought him to fix his eyes upon her. But I think that that is to be looked upon as a Calumny of those who reproached him with all kinds of crimes, because he had pursued them with all sorts of evils. Ambitious men, such as Woolsey, are either not very sensible of love, or would not be so tame as to give to another what they love themselves. However it be, whether it was an effect of the counsel of that bad Minister; or that the Beauty of Mary, which daily increased, had awakened some desire in the mind of HENRY the Eight; it is certain, that that Prince after the death of Cecile Blunt, did speak of love to the Princess his Sister. She understood him not at first, or to say better, she would not understand him: but the account that she gave of it to Brandon, had almost killed him with grief. And although he never dreamt of any such thing, yet the indifferency wherewith the King for some time had used him, gave sufficient evidence of the change of his fortune; and as till then he had doubted what might be the cause of that disgrace, imputing it sometime to some fault of his own, and sometime to the natural inconstancy of the King, so he believed that he had then found it out. So that to remove himself from trouble, and following no other counsel, but that of his jealousy or fear; he begged leave of the King to go to Calais with the first Troops that were then drawing out for the War of France. Though the King had not altogether the Sentiments which Brandon suspected, yet he well understood his thoughts; and without any farther discovery, he thought it enough to answer, that it behoved him to moderate that impatience, seeing he intended to have him by him the first time that he drew his sword. But, notwithstanding of this obliging answer, Brandon's disturbance had no end; insomuch that some days after, finding occasion to speak again to the King, he renewed to him the same suit: adding, that if he could a little train himself in the matters of War before he undertook it, he would deserve better to follow His Majesty. Upon this the King, by a return of affection, for a man whom he had so much loved, being willing wholly to undeceive him; told him smiling, That he well perceived what he had in his thoughts, but that sure he was not more dangerous than another; and that he should not take the alarm so hot for a little gallantry, which he used with his Sister, only to divert him from thinking on poor Cecile. Nothing certainly, in that juncture of affairs, could have been better said, and it answered all objections. Nevertheless, diffidence, which is natural to all true Lovers, made Brandon think these words the more to be suspected, the less that they appeared so. He imagined that his dangerous Rival, under an affected repugnancy, cloaked a real desire to see him at a distance; which he discoursed of with the Princess in so prepossessed a manner, that she was constrained in reason to approve of what his weakness proposed. But before he asked the third time permission from the King to departed, and took his leave of her, he resolved in an excessive fit of love to acquaint her with what he had learned concerning his Birth.  
The Princess Mary was no less surprised at the relation, which from his Uncle he had made to her of that matter, than he himself was at first: and though the whole story of the marriage of the Earl of Warwick, with Ann Hemlock, founded on the prediction of Merlin, or the report of Old Hastings lately dead, might appear suspicious in the mouth of a Lover; yet she entertained not the least thought of that nature. On the contrary, notwithstanding the favourable opinion that she had of the truth of all, her surprise appeared visibly in her eyes, as he was speaking; and so soon as he had made an end, being desirous to have all things better cleared, she told him with a tenderness, which the novelty of the matter, and the emotion of her mind, rendered very extraordinary; that she loved him no better for being a Prince of York, but that she loved herself somewhat more on that account; and that being well-pleased, that she had cause to reverence in him what till then she had but esteemed, she rejoiced that she had no reason to fear those stir of pride in her heart; which might be sometimes troublesome to a person of her Quality, in regard of the condition she took him to be of. That all that notwithstanding was but a dangerous Idea, with which they ought never to entertain themselves. That he was dear enough to her, as the Son of Brandon; and that he would but create her disquiet, as a Prince of the Blood of York. That so he would not do well to be jealous of the greatness of his Birth; that he ought to renounce that for her sake, and that bounding all his ambition with the favour of being beloved so tenderly as she loved him, he should never attempt to make himself known for the man he was. Brandon being at the same time amazed, and charmed to hear her speak in so obliging terms, could make her no other answer, but that she was too gracious; and that when he resolved to disclose to her his secret, it was not so much to engage her to more goodness towards him, as to put her in a condition of punishing him, if it ever happened that he should prove unworthy of her favours. But the fair Princess stopping him there, replied softly, That he had no reason to suspect that she should one day punish him, unless he thought that he might one day offend her. That nevertheless he needed not be afraid, though he should even become her Enemy; and that she was not the innocent maid, of whom Merlin spoke afterward, without giving him time to answer; and considering with more reason than she had at first thought on, the design he had projected of removing from Court for a time, she represented to him, That he ought to have special care not to betray himself, by looking on the Duchess of Salisbury and her Daughter, who were expected within a few days at Court, as his Aunt and Cousin. She added, that his true Birth rendered a little suspected to her, the choice that the King had made of that Princess for her Conduct, having so many times testified that he loved her not. She told him that he ought on that occasion distrust him: and that though the kindnesses, wherewith he had thought fit to entertain her in some Rencounters, were certainly nothing else but some exercises and frolicks of wit, seeing he did not persist in them; yet it was possible there might be in it some hidden mystery, which time might discover. In fine, continued she, my Knight, and Brother (these were the names that she gave him in her Childhood, and commonly still when they were by themselves) let us distrust all the world, distrust me if you please; and above all things have a care to continue still to be Brandon, leaving to me the care of the Prince of York; and you shall find that whether you be necessitated to departed, or have the liberty to abide at Court, it shall be more pleasant for you to be reputed what you are in my heart, than to appear so in the eyes of the world.  
Thus ended their conversation; which as it was the most important interview that they could enjoy, so was it also the longest that ever they had had. But the Earl of Kildare, who had three times presented himself in the Antichamber of the Princess, and had been by her Maids still dismissed on frivolous reasons, seeing Brandon come forth, conceived so great indignation thereat, that he followed him with a purpose to quarrel, and left him not till he saw him enter into the King's Apartment. This Earl being Son to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and buoyed up besides by the protection of Woolsey, and some concerns that he had with the Lady Dacres, thought that he might have better success than the rest in the service of the Princess Mary. He had not as yet seen any impediment to his design, but Brandon; and promising himself already great advantages from the apparent disgrace whereof some began to pity his danger, he stood not upon examination of what he designed against him. He received moreover a new ground of jealousy, upon the Arrival of Margaret of York, Duchess of Salisbury, which put him out of all patience; for being with him at Richmont, at the reception which the Princess, conducted by the Queen, was there to give to that illustrious Widow, the first ceremonies being past, he unluckily observed a little, but very obliging sign that she had made to his Enemy, to draw near her chair. He afterwards perceived by her eyes and actions, that she spoke to him with much goodness; and in effect, the Princess Mary being taken with some features, that the Ladies of Salisbury had in common with Brandon; she could not forbear telling him at the very instant, the trouble that that sight occasioned her, so that it was sufficiently observed that she spoke to him with somewhat of tenderness: and Brandon on the other hand, whether for joy to find her so well persuaded of the truth of what he had told her concerning his Birth; or to divert her from the officious fears that she had for his sake, answering in a composed and contented manner, made it almost past all doubt. Insomuch that the Earl of Kildare mad of jealousy, and being no longer master of himself, went forth with a resolution to take his satisfaction in what place soever he could meet him. But the King being come likewise to that visit before his going to Greenwich, to see a great match of hunting; Brandon who was to wait upon him, gave not his Enemy the occasion so soon as he expected it.  
And now his thoughts being wholly taken up about his departure, and that which the Princess herself had immediately before told him of the resemblance that he had to the Ladies of Salisbury, his desire was only bend to withdraw himself; and he thought to find an opportunity favourable enough of speaking to the King, as he waited upon him down to the Park, where he was to take horse; but he was deceived in that, and it happened to be a fatal nick of time: for the King, (who was out of humour, because the Spaniards on the Pyrenean side did not perform on their part what they had promised for a rapture with France); answered him pretty briskly, that he thought he had been cured of that impatience: and as he was about to insist, Ha! said he, you importune me, let me alone I pray thee: you will but trouble my sport at Greenwich; and so turning his back upon him, he went away with those that used to wait on him on such occasions. So that the melancholic Brandon, thinking that himself only was ordered to stay behind, sought out some corner in the Park, wherein to evaporate the thoughts which at that time tormented him; and had sometime walked about in that design with a wounded heart, for the slight that the King had given him: when the Earl of Keldare, having had confused notice of what passed, came towards him. Though he saw him at a pretty distance, yet he did not prepare to engage him, but stopped to consider the fierce and threatening looks wherewith he advanced towards him. Whereupon the Irish man drawing, Brandon who was obliged to do the same, encountered him. And by a wound first in the shoulder, made him see his own blood: with a second pass he run him through the right arm; and the third going quite through his body, made him fall against the pales. Never was there any quarrel sooner made, and more quickly decided. The noise of this Duel having called together those who in the delightful spring came to enjoy in that Park the first verdure of the fields, and the servants of the wounded Earl being come in, Brandon was instantly apprehended: and the matter being afterward reported to Woolsey, by the authority which that new Minister had already acquired, he was made prisoner in a Tower of Richmont-house, until that the Lord Mayor of London, following the King on his way to Greenwich, should receive his Orders concerning that affair.  
The Princess Mary had no information of all this, but from the Duchess of Salisbury, who in that confusion, and in respect of the Prisoner, who was to be carefully guarded, was advised not to delay till next day the taking possession of her apartment with the Princess, in whom it is not easy to be represented what Impression this news made. The reflections that she had made on the pretended resemblance betwixt Brandon and the two Ladies of Salisbury of the house of York: and the secret apprehensions that she thereupon conceived, which made her leave the Queen in her Walk, pretending herself indisposed, held her still in great perplexity. She went to bed, that she might not be obliged to see any body; and there her mind being prepossessed with what she knew, and imagining that it would suddenly come to the knowledge of others, her thoughts presented to her nothing but dismal objects. Insomuch that the disaster of Brandon surprising her in this condition, all that she had before but confusedly thought on, seemed to her manifest and clear. With a great cry she let fall her head on the pillow; and to complete her sorrow, she received a note from the King, who had given orders to the Mayor of London, to remove the Prisoner to the Tower, acquainting her directly, That he not doubting but that the punishment which Brandon deserved for killing the Earl of Kildare, would put her in some disorder; he prayed her to suspend the good opinion which she might have for that ungrateful person, until that he should inform her of some strange things which he had learned.  
Such general and ambiguous terms, susceptible of any meaning, that an affrightned mind could give them, put the Princess Mary to the extremity of despair; and that first night, when Brandon went to the Tower of London, was a sad and terrible night to her. Judith Kiffen, who thought it fit to watch with her alone that night; (and who being ignorant of the mysterious secret that caused her grief, imputed to the love alone to which she was privy, all the incoherent expressions that seemed to escape from her without judgement,) had more to do with her than she dreamt of. The vexation of her mind was followed by an oppression of body. She fell into a Fever, but so dangerous, as put every one in fear of her life; and the Queen and Duchess of Salisbury, who could not be always denied access into her Chamber, being next day the most solicitous about her, to procure her ease; her fortune was certainly good, that at that time the violence of her distemper having deprived her of the use of speech, put her out of condition of betraying herself.  
The King in the meanwhile, whose thoughts were far different from hers, and being ignorant of the secret causes of her fear; proposing to himself in this conjuncture, only his revenge, both for the indifferency wherewith she entertained his Gallantry, and the idle fear that her Lover thereupon conceived, followed his game at Greenwich: and continued it even longer than at first he intended, that such as came from London to beg of him, that he would change the orders given to the Lord Mayor against the Prisoner, might not find him; and that so he might have ground to say, that he was ignorant of what had passed. Insomuch that several messengers, sent either by the Queen or the Duchess of Salisbury, to give him advice of the sickness of the Princess Mary, sought him in the Fields and Woods in vain. They were everywhere directed to find him in places where he was not: but Grace, Son to the Marquis of Dorset, who of his own head had taken horse, was more fortunate in his search. The love that he had for the Princess Mary, made him sufficiently understand what the best-informed could know of her distemper, though it was given out that it had seized her before the business of Brandon happened: and how jealous sooner he was of the precious testimony of affection, which at that time she gave to his happy Rival; yet his jealousy served only to prompt him with greater earnestness to attempt her relief. Insomuch that he surmounted all the difficulties that had hindered the rest from finding the King, and having passionately given him an account of the dangerous condition that the Princess was in, he moved him instantly to return to Greenwich, from whence next morning by the break of day he departed for London. The insolence of Woolsey was at first sufficiently repressed, by the dislike which the King testified of his procedure. Having waved the discourses that they would have made to him concerning the wounds of the Earl of Kildare, and having nothing in his mind but the sickness of his Sister; and knowing better than Grace, that her cure consisted in the safety of Brandon, he asked presently how he was used, and gave order to the Lord Terrill, to send him such of his servants, as he might stand in need of. So that fame, which commonly is swifter than the Marches of Kings, having carried this good news into the apartment of the Princess, was without doubt the most acceptable harbinger that she could have of his Arrival. But fear having wrought great disorders in her mind; and after a new paroxysm of her Fever, which did but begin to abate, her mind being weakened as well as her body, she could not show herself to him, as she desired to appear. The trembling tone of her voice, proceeding rather from the tenderness of her heart, than the force of her distemper, gave but too sensible a proof of the hard trial she had been put to; and there was nothing more easy than for him to perceive that the life of Brandon was her sole care, though she had not asked him if it was true that he intended to cause him to be put to death?  
So that this Prince, who on such occasions was very sensible, answering only with kisses and tears; and her Caresses expressing her desire far more intelligibly than words, gave him hardly liberty to speak, that he might oppose himself to the impatience that she was in. He left her that he might with his counsel contrive a way to relieve Brandon from the Tower with pretext of justice. But for all the formality which he affected to observe in his affairs, he had no great occasion to be so scrupulous in this matter. The greatest part of the Court, who perceived his design, spoke openly for Brandon against the Earl of Kildare. And after a formal show of examining the tumultuary depositions, that they might give some favourable colour to their proceed, the Lords Poyning and Terrill were immediately sent to the Prisoner. He came with them without a guard; and as he cast himself on his knees before the King, there appearing in his  some mark of the insolent usage that he had met with: you see, said the King to him, how dangerous it is for you to remove from me, and that I had reason not to consent to your departure: seeing that in a moment that you have left me, there is a world of enemies broken lose against you. Whereupon Brandon offering to speak of the aggression of the Earl of Kildare, the King stopped him at the first word, and commanded him to rise, promising to do justice in time and place to him that deserved it. Then drawing him a little aside, he told him, that the Princess' health must be his chief endeavour; and that for his better succeeding in that office, he thought it not fit he should see her in the disorder that he was in. No body heard this discourse, nor somewhat else that passed betwixt them. It was only seen that the King forced himself to appear grave in his discourse; and whilst he himself went to change his , as well as Brandon, (whom he had again ordered to do so); all Brandon's friends, whom his ill fortune had not as yet much dispersed, rallied together, and brought him from his Lodgings, where some met him, and others accompanied him, as in triumph to the Palace.  
He paid hls second visit to the Queen, who had interceded for him; and whilst he was with her Majesty, the King that he might countenance his visit to his Sister, came back to her apartment. But he suffered none of his train to come farther in, than the first Gallery: under pretext that much company was incommodious to sick persons; and so soon as he had notice that Brandon was coming, leaving none with her but Judith Kiffen, he himself withdrew to the Duchess of Salisbury's apartment, that in so delicate and much-desired an interview, she might not be under any constraint.  
It would be a great undertaking to endeavour to give a precise and full account of all that was done and said at that time betwixt Brandon and the English Princess; besides, at first their hearts and eyes made all the discourse, the Princess wanting strength to speak otherways; and Brandon having so much to say, that he knew not well how to express any thing. At length the Princess spoke first who seeing him more afflicted at her distemper than could be imagined, strained herself to tell him, that it was nothing, and that seeing he was free from the danger wherein she believed him to be, she should shortly be cured of the sickness wherein he saw her. She declared to him moreover, as well as she could, that the hurt or death of the Earl of Kildare, was not that which had dismayed her: but that she feared he had been discovered. He answered but very little to that, though no body could hear what they said. Nor could the King's note which she gave him to read for the confirmation of her belief and fear, engage him to enter on that discourse. He knew that the safest way was never to speak more of it; and having heard nothing to that purpose in his Prison, and the manner how the King received him, having no relation at all to that, he was well enough acquainted with his character, and stile, to guests at the truth of the matter. So that he thought it sufficient by his looks, to free her from the apprehension that she had conceived; and discoursing to her only concerning her health, with mutual expressions of tender affection, they began to renew the testimonies of their real loves; when the King fearing that too long a conversation might be hurtful to a sick person, returned, and separated them with as much kindness as he had brought them together.  
Brandon followed him, that he might render him thanks for his favours, and inform himself what was to be the issue of the Rancounter he had had with the Earl of Kildare, whose wounds were not mortal. But their discourse on that subject was not long. The King who naturally concerned himself in the amours of every one, wishing him only joy for the good opinion, that a fair Princess was pleased to have of him, took thereby occasion to rally with him, because he had taken him for his Rival, upon some words of Gallantry which escaped from him, (as he said) whilst he intended only to bewail the death of Cecile. Then he upbraided him with the small trust he gave to his word and friendship, that carried him so far as to resolve to leave him; and confessing at length frankly, that he had not caused him to be sent to the Tower, but to revenge himself of that private affront, and at the same time to discover what love could do in the heart of a young Princess; it might seem that he had no more to say for his satisfaction. But yet he stopped not there; for finding in himself some secret joy, which added somewhat to his natural debonairity; and that it concerned the health of his Sister, that Brandon should reassume his former jollities, that with more success he might employ himself in her Service; he thought it not sit to dismiss him, before he had dissipated the smallest mists, which great affairs, how well soever concluded, leave commonly behind them. No foreign nor remote matters disturbed him at that time, and he had just then received good news from the Emperor, who to begin the War against France, promised to act on the Frontiers of Picardy, which the wary King of Spain deferred to do on the side of Guyenne. So that finding his mind in great liberty, he gave Brandon a review of the life they had led together; and laying before him almost all the Testimonies of Friendship that he had showed him, he forgot not amongst the rest to take special notice of the merit of that obliging manner, whereby he had countenanced his love. With that desiring a suitable return of Justice, he cried, that it was his part to render it him: adding, that he knew not how he could (after so powerful obligations) suspect, that he would take the Earl of Kildare's part against him, and far less, how he could believe him to be in love with his own Sister; and the Rival of a friend, of whose passion he himself had laid the foundation; and at length concluded, that he well perceived that love was always accompanied with infirmities; and that lovers could not guard against them, when their friends had the art to foresee them. At these last words, which he could not pronounce without a smile, Brandon was so fully convinced of his sincerity, that he lost all the remains of distrust and trouble, which he could possibly retain. And to confirm him in the just persuasion that he was of, the King gave him his hand as an evidence of a perfect good correspondence: then thinking it needless to entreat him to take care of the Princess recovery, knowing it to be his greatest concern, he thought it enough to tell him in the most taking way imaginable, that they ought both to contribute their utmost endeavours for that effect; and that he himself being guilty of much imprudence in that conjuncture, would grant her for her comfort, without exception, whatever she pleased to desire. But Brandon, who understood but too well the meaning of that discourse, was so much the more affected with it, that by an excess of love and virtue, he began of himself so to be disposed, as not to be flattered with any thing. The hopes that had dazzled him in his younger days, dazzled him now no more in the age that he had attained to. Time and reason made him daily discover new impediments. His true birth seemed likewise to object secret hindrances, which appeared invincible; and whatsoever affection the Princess was preingaged in, in his favour, and what goodness soever the King might evidence to him, yet he saw no appearance to promise himself that he would one day give her to him in marriage: nor did he find it even reasonable, that he himself should desire it. He very well knew that the Daughters and Sisters of Kings are always married for reasons of State; and that it was to much purpose indeed for him to balance the ancient custom of England, and the design that the King had to establish 〈◊〉 with that universal maxim. Neither 〈◊〉 ancient custom, nor the re-establishment that the King gave out he intended to make of it, appeared to him any thing, but a vain phantasm raised against the treaty of Calais: or at most but a specious reason to temporise for some years in expectation of some better alliance against the house of Austria. To that it may be added, that though it had been true that the lovely Princess had not been intended in marriage to any Foreign Prince, there were yet many other great Lords in England, Scotland, and Ireland, who might be chosen for that purpose; and all those who pretended to her, as he did, be excluded. So that finding himself at that time filled with these great and hard thoughts, which sometimes had made him resolve to forsake the Kingdom, and sometimes to withdraw out of it for a time, he thought he could never find a more favourable occasion to open himself to the King. And therefore he broke his mind to him, as he had been desirous to do; and reflecting on the zeal for the Princess, which that Prince endeavoured to inspire in him, he told him, That as to that, he had more need of a curb than a spur, and that the sentiments of his heart were but too publicly known: That he saw on all hands but too many, who were envious of a blessing, which he owed only to his Approbation, and not to the goodness of her, who was reproached therewith. That after so much rumour, it was very fit to raise no more; That rather than his respects should cost the greatest Princess of the world so dear, he would renounce the honour of her Presence; and that seeing he was unable to do her any service, he ought at least to be careful of her Glory. And that to succeed in that design, there was no other expedient but flight; That though he made no difference betwixt dying, and leaving of London, yet he was fully resolved to do it, if his Majesty would give him leave. That in begging it of him, he could assure his Majesty, that he had never flattered himself with any foolish hope in reference to the Princess; That what goodness soever she might have for him, yet he never framed any disadvantageous notions of her; and that if he durst ever make a wish when he saw her, it was only that he might be able to serve her so long as he lived. But that he was so far from that, that it behoved him for the future to renounce the honour of seeing her; and that the innocence of his intentions sufficed not to preserve him in the enjoyment of so precious a blessing. That to conclude, he begged his pardon for the disorders which he might have occasioned in his Court; that he acknowledged himself altogether unworthy of the favours that he had conferred upon him: but that nevertheless, he did not think he deserved the character of ungrateful; and that if he found him in the least guilty of that, he prayed him to take from him that odious name, by taking away his life.  
This was the substance of what the passionate Brandon expressed in no less passionate terms; and the King the more touched with his virtue, that he was sensible enough that he had not used him kindly since the death of Cecile, had no way to defend himself. His heart was wholly again inflamed for a man of so sublime a soul, and in a nice emulation, which Kings seldom condescend to with their subjects, he answered Brandon, that he perceived he was well informed of what he had written to his Sister, and that he made great matters of it, though it deserved no such construction; for the truth was, that he being willing to try the effects of love in a case of adversity, had made use of the first word that appeared proper for his design. That there was no more in that note; and that, in fine, as to himself, it was but a trifle as well as the rest: but not so on his part, seeing his memory was so good, and he so touchy, that he could not pardon some small inequalities, which appeared in his humour since the death of Cecile. That he had had some doubts that Woolsey might give him some Umbrage, but that he never thought the impression could have been so deep; and that the same appearances that had deceived him before, deceived him still. That notwithstanding he could not but excuse two errors, into which he let himself only be led by an excess of affection. That to undeceive him, he would endeavour to proceed to an equal excess; and that there was nothing in his Kingdom so great, to which his heart and eyes might not aspire. And that therefore he would not have him be troubled at the fopperies and idle talk of people; That he should suffer his jealous Rivals to speak what their own jealousy would sufficiently hinder from being believed; That it ought to suffice him, that he knew the virtue of his Sister; That he was willing he should love her, and that he pretended that whatsoever was done with his approbation, was above obloquy and censure. In a word, dear Brandon, said he, I will not that your virtue be the reason why you leave me. My honour is concerned that I retain you; and after all this, what would be said of the King of England, if it were known that a wise and discreet man could not live with him? I shall not then comply with your desire, your virtue has revenged you on my imprudence, and my favours shall revenge me on your diffidence: and though now you see some in my Court that create you trouble, it is possible that shortly seeing none above you but myself, you shall see nothing there but what may give you content. At these words Brandon casting himself at his feet, would have answered, that he could never deserve the favours which he mentioned: but the King embracing him, no more of this, said he, we shall never make an end. Delay your thanks for what I say, until you have seen what I can do; return to me with as sincere an heart, as I desire you to do it, and let nothing take up the cares of us both, but my Sister's health: I wish the time were come that I might give you her.  
In this manner the illustrious Brandon escaped the shipwreck, wherein most people thought him overwhelmed. He grew greater after his disgrace, than he had been before; and the King to keep his word to him, having repealed all the proceed of the Mayor of London against him, and given Woolsey a severe check for the violence he had used in that Rancounter, condemned the Earl of Kildare in the charge of maintaining two Frigates in the Irish-Seas. Of all the Rivals of Brandon, there was none but the officious Grace exempted. The generosity that he had showed for an unfortunate enemy, was of no small use to settle the good opinion, which in the sequel he was held in. But Bourchier, Somerset, young Buckingham, and the rest, met with sharp Reprimands from the King; and his Majesty having expressed himself with discontent against the scoffers and libelers, which spared not so much as his own Palace, men became more reserved, and spoke no more of the affairs of others. In the mean while, the Princess having been in great danger of her life, gave shortly assured signs of a speedy cure. Besides, her young age and good constitution, that which contributed much to it, was the relation that Brandon gave her of the long discourse which he had had with the King, the day that he was released. Though he persisted in the design that the King had endeavoured to divert him from; yet at that time he gave no signs of it. On the contrary in the necessity of pleasing her, he himself was willing to seem flattered with the things that he thought no more on, but with grief; and that complaisance working its effect, the tranquillity of her mind recalled so effectually her bodily health, that she recovered from her sickness more beautiful than before. But as the King had only delayed his expedition to the War of France for her sake; so he hastened his departure, so soon as he knew her to be out of danger, and used the more precipitancy, because knowing better than any other the trouble that she and Brandon would have to bid adieu, he would not have them have time to prepare for it, nor to revive their passions.  
Few arms have marched out with a more victorious air, than that of England. The King, the Commanders, Soldiers, and every thing else seemed to go in triumph; and there was no appearance, as the affairs of Lewis the twelfth stood, that he could be able to withstand them. The League form against him by the intrigues of Pope Julius the Second, who had resolved at what rate soever to be revenged of him, because that by his Ambassadors he had maintained the Council of Pisa, where his life had been so severely examined, raised him as many enemies as he had neighbours. His allies had already felt the cruel effects of his misfortune. And amongst others, poor John D'albert lost the year before his Kingdom of Navarre; for Ferdinand of Arragon, who desired nothing more than to join it to Spain, failed not to lay hold on the specious pretext offered him by the Interdict of Rome: and though that Pope, a man of a froward and turbulent spirit, upon his recovery from a great fit of sickness, seemed to repent his bad designs; yet he had engaged so many other potentates, that he was now no more the Master of Peace. All Italy was in arms. The most part of the small Princes hoping to raise themselves to greatness in the disorder, and running to the noise that had awakened them, joined themselves to the party of the League, though they knew not why; so that, what secret attempts so ever Julius the Second made at that time to make an end of the War, yet the loss of the Battle of Navarre (which drew after it all the Milanese) that the French then sustained, was nevertheless a chick of his hatching.  
The sad news of this came to Paris at the same time, that the English embarked for their passage; and many cross accidents together befell the King of France, during the joys that his Court could not refuse to the marriage of the Count of Guise with Anthonet of Bourbon, Sister to the Count of Vendosme. Not but, that in the apprehension of the storm which he foresaw from England, having already dealt with the King of Scotland to make a diversion; and Pregent his Vice-admiral in the Mediterranean, who had no more to do with the Genoese, being ready to pass over the Channel with Primanget, Commander of the British-Ships, to ravage the Coasts of Ireland; he had a great many good Troops on foot, and Officers of extraordinary merit. Lowis de Halewin, Marquis of Pienne, a man of consummated Valour, who was their General, had Rendezvouzed them at Hedin. The Marquis de Potelin of a boiling hot Courage, commanded the Cavalry; and after him in several charges were, the Count de la Plaisse, a warlike man, the Chevalier Bayard, characterised without fear, and without reproach. The brave Aimard de prie, Imbercourt, Clairmont, D'anjou, Bussy, D'amboise, Bonnivet, Bonneval, Fonterailles, and a great many more all capable to command Armies, not to reckon those who in respect of Birth were above them, as the Counts of Guise and Vendosme, and the Duke of Alencon, whom the affairs of State obliged to remain with his Person. But the loss of the Milanese put him in great Consternation; and the King of England being Landed at Calais, at the head of thirty thousand foot, and six thousand horse, with the greatest Artillery that had been seen for a hundred years, he promised himself no favourable success in his Warlike preparations. The Emperor followed by four thousand Peistres, and between five and six thousand Burgundian Faintassins', had already begun the Fight in Picardy, so that it was not difficult to the English to perfect it. Brandon and Talbot, who led the Vanguard under the Conduct of Colonel Windham, whom the King had given them to moderate a little the heat of their Courage, acted at first all that two young men, who sought nothing but honour, were capable to perform; and chief Brandon by his love animated to glory, and rendering all things easily to his guide, made the prudence of that ancient Warrior so yield to his good fortune, that having persuaded him to advance as far as the City of Therowenne, they invested it.  
Francis de Deligny, Seneschal of Rowergue, and Anthony de Crequy, Pontdormy, Commanded in that place with a Garrison of two thousand Lanskenets, and five hundred Lancers; and being both vigorous and stout Commanders, they made several salleys upon their enemies. It was only the wilfulness of Brandon that kept the Town blocked up, whither the King of England immediately hastening with long marches, and being as yet of no great experience, ran great Riske in the plain of Tournehan, where he had with him but ten thousand foot. The Chevalier Bayard was already Master of one of the twelve Culverines' which he carried with him, and the English were put into great terror: but the too great prudence of the Marquis de Pienne marred all the advantage which the French might have made of that occasion. Brandon, who marched to meet the King his Master, had time to join his Army, and to change the face of affairs; and that Prince well instructed by the engagement, how useful that favourite was to him, found hardly any other way to acknowledge his Valour, but by praying him to husband it better. The esteem that he conceived of him, became equal to his former affection; and during that War, wherein all that belonged to him, behaved themselves well, he was almost never heard to speak but of Brandon. It is no less true, that he daily deserved new praises; and that the siege of Therowenne being form, there was no corner where he did not show himself a terror to the enemies.  
It is not my design to give a particular account of all his actions, nor to relate the secret sentiments of his heart; no more than the Letters which he wrote to the English Princess, and those he received from her. Such particularities would lead me too far: besides, there is nothing more easy than to imagine, that being separated from one another, they failed not in the duties which a mutual tenderness prescribes to true lovers. In effect, absence served only to make them know one another; they felt by experience the effects of all sorts of long, impatiences and fears: and as the Princess Mary heard not without trembling of the dangers to which she knew he exposed himself, only that he might merit her; in the same manner he never ran any risk, but that he had the Image of that beautiful Princess before his eyes. It was to no purpose for his friends, who saw him so resolute, to tell him, that he tempted his fortune too often, to have it always favourable. It was Brandon's design, either to prevent by a glorious death all the evils that he thought himself threatened by; or to raise himself to so great a reputation amongst men, that he might have no more cause of fear from them: and that thirst after glory, which Henry the Eighth understood very well to be the effect of his love, was oftener than once the subject of their entertainments. But what moderation soever the King advised him to use that way; though he told him every day, that he did precipitate himself without any reason into dangers, for a blessing which was already wholly his own, yet he remitted nothing of that Warlike heat; but endeavoured (if it may be so said) to make his King, and the Kingdom of England obliged to him for every thing. And in that he succeeded so well, that having gained as many Victories as he fought Battles, there was not so much as one, even to his most jealous Rivals, who acknowledged not, that as they could not any more contend with him in any thing; so nothing likewise aught to be denied him: but the bravest of all his actions, and which in the decision of that War cost him so dear in the sequel, was the taking of the Marquis of Rotelin, who began then to be called Duke of Longueville.  
The design of the French was to re-victual Therowenne; and though the Emperor and King of England straight pressed the place, yet Teligny and Crequy, promised themselves in time to make them consume their Forces before it; provided they could have Ammunition and Victuals, whereof they began to be in want, put into the place. The King of France upon the word of these two Valiant men, Commanded the Marquis de Pienne to omit nothing that could be done for that end; and he wrote to him daily from Amiens, where he lay a-bed of the Gout to that purpose. In so much, that what difficulty soever there might be in the enterprise, Pienne resolved to undertake it. The Orders were given to bold Fonterailles, Captain of the Albanians, who being loaded with Powder and Provisions, slipped quietly by as far as the Town-ditch. But as till then the design had been very well carried on, so the imprudence of the Volunteers, who would not join with the Troops which La Palisse commanded to make good Fonterailles' retreat, was the cause that it took no effect. Most part of them entered the Town to visit their friends. Others scorched with heat, alighted from their great horses, and to refresh themselves, mounted their ambling Nags; and almost all of them having drunk and made merry, came in disorder, some in a huddle together, and the rest in file one after another, to view the English Camp. Brandon being informed how matters went, and withal vexed at the victualling of the Town, which the King his Master thinking the occasion might prove too hot for him, would not suffer him to oppose, came to ask leave to charge those at lest who had done it in their retreat. He moved the King a little at first, by representing to him how easy a matter it was to cut them all to pieces; or at least to take them Prisoners, by the foolish confidence they were in; and speaking to that, not only as an able Captain for Conduct, but likewise as a resolute Soldier for execution, there being no time to be lost, the King at last consented to it. So that, whilst there were some detachments making against the parties of Fonterailles, and la Palisse, to beat back the one, and break the other; Brandon, with Colonel Davers marching at the head of four thousand horse, eight hundred foot, and six pieces of Cannon, passes the River Lis, near to Derlet, and lies in wait for the Enemies at the passage of Hutin. They retreated with great assurance, marching in confusion, as he had foreseen, for being pursued by none after the false alarm, which was purposely given them was over, and missing none of their number, but the young Count D'anton, Son to the Signior of Bouchage, and some others that could not get out of Therowenne, they dreamt not of any greater mischief: when Brandon appearing of a sudden, so sharply charged them, that having no leisure to mount their great Horses again, nor to put on their headpieces, they began to be in disorder. The brave la Palisse, notwithstanding of the stout resistance he made, was already taken; and the undaunted Chevalier Bayard, having almost singlely defended the bridge of Hutin, became companion in the bad fortune of Clairmont, D'anjow, and of Bussy D'amboise, to whose assistance he came. There remained none but the Duke of Longueville to head the subdued, who being mounted on a stout charging-horse, completely armed, it seemed no easy matter for one man hand to hand to get the better of him: and besides a considerable body of the French Army advancing in order of Battle, those that had been put to flight, began to rally. So that Brandon perceiving that the total rout of the Enemies depended on the overthrow of this Warrior, and by the riches of his arms, taking him for a French Prince, he left lafoy Palisse in the hands of some Gentlemen, who kept him not long; and with sword in hand set upon him, whose resistance hindered his Victory.  
The Duke of Longueville received him valiantly: but at length, after the interchanging of many blows, Brandon with the danger of a wound which he received in the thigh, dismounted the Duke, who disjointed his shoulder by the fall. The French upon this turned back upon those that were coming to their aid, and put their own men in as great disorder, as the Enemy would have done; and seeing in this Battle their horses heels had done them better service than the points of their swords, it was called the Battle of Spurs. But it had been far better for Brandon, that the Duke of Longueville had escaped with the rest; for the injury that he did him afterward was so great, that all the Glory he obtained in overcoming him, and all the praise that he gained thereby, was not enough to make amends for it. Time sensibly discovering to him, that fortune by great evils can be repaid of her greatest favours.  
After this, there happened no more considerable action on either side. Brandon's wound kept him a fortnight a-bed; and the King of France, though he had lost but very few men, being unwilling to expose his Kingdom to the danger of a Battle, thought it best to give Therowenne to the fortune of his Enemies. Teligny after two months' siege, rendered it on composition, Victuals and Ammunition failing him before his Courage; and the King of England, and the Emperor not agreeing betwixt themselves about the propriety of the place; the one claiming it by right of Inheritance, and the other by Conquest, it was presently demolished. In the mean time Lowis the Twelfth, that he might put a stop to his bad success, by employing a General, in whose safety all his Subjects might be concerned, caused the young Duke of Valois to advance to Blangy. But neither the merit of that Prince, nor the great Forces that daily joined him, hindered the progress of the King of England; for whilst the Duke Longueville, and the other Prisoners were on their way to London, he lay down before the City of Tournay, which having no hope of relief, as lying in the midst of the Low-countrieses, made no long resistance. And having now reduced that place under his Obedience, and beginning to have some jarring with the Emperor, who in many things was chargeable to him, and in others unfaithful, he returned back into England.  
Never was Prince better satisfied; for besides his own Conquests of Therowenne and Tournay, the Victory which the Earl of Surrey's Lieutenant had just then obtained over the Scots, raised him to the highest pitch of fortune, that he could almost pretend to; and though his Fleet had received some rustle in the Bay of Breast, yet the death of the King of Scotland killed in the Battle of Floudon, which he fought only for the interest of France, though he was his Brother-in-law, revenged him fully of that, and of the damage which Pregent and Primanguet had done him on his Wastes: Insomuch, that he entered London in triumph; where, to reward those who had fought so valiantly for his Glory, he made Brandon Duke of Suffolk, gave the Title of Duke of Norfolk to the Earl of Surrey, and to his Son the Admiral, that of Surrey: and Talbot, Grace and Somerset, who had behaved themselves stoutly on all occasions, were created, the one Earl of Shrewsbury in the place of his Father who desired it; the other Marquis of Dorset, his Father being lately dead, and the last Earl of Worcester. But these are matters wide of my Subject, and I should not remark them by the by, but for avoiding confusion, in the names of those who may have some share in the sequel of this History. My business should be to relate the joy that the English Princess conceived upon the return of Brandon, to which the title of Duke of Suffolk, (as from henceforth he must be named) added but little; for a real virtue once known, needs no other Ornaments. And the affectionate rebukes she gave him for having so often exposed himself to dangers, would without doubt require a more exact description than I make, were it not that the tenderness of these Lovers is sufficiently known; and that their pains, rather than pleasures, are to be related: since that amidst trouble and difficulties, the greatness and power of Love appears more conspicuous. After so fair beginnings, they wanted not crosses; and all that had befallen them before the War, from the competition of Grace, Bourchier, and Somerset, from the King's indifferency after the death of Cecile Blunt, or from the aggression of the Earl of Kildare, followed by an Imprisonment, which the secret Quality of a Prince of York rendered the more dangerous: All this, I say, bears no proportion with what they endured afterward.  
Upon the return from the War of France, all people imagining that Brandon, who had acquired so much Glory there, should espouse the Princess Mary, when they saw him only made Duke of Suffolk, and nothing else talked of, they believed that his fortune was at a stand; and that in that respect there had been more policy than friendship in the Conduct of the King. There is but little certainty in the opinions of men, all is but whimsy. There was no more discourse therefore of his Intelligence with Mary of England, nor of the services he rendered her. On the contrary they began both to be pitied, as two perfect Lovers, cruelly and unjustly dealt with. But whilst people thus favoured them with their good opinions, a tranquil serenity gave jealousy time to rise to a head against them. This new Quality of Duke of Suffolk, which rendered him a suitable match to the chiefest Ladies at Court, made in effect, many of them cast their thoughts that way, because it was believed that he had attained to the greatest height that he could expect. So that the lovely Lucretia Tilney being of a Quality and Fortune answerable to his merit, the Princess had no sooner taken notice of the civilities which Suffolk rendered her to please the King only, who designed her for his Mistress, but that she immediately imagined they were the effects of Love. So that she became jealous to that extremity, into which true Lovers commonly fall of a sudden. She spoke not a word of this to her faithful Judith Kiffen, from whom she had never concealed any thing but the secret of Brandon's Birth; who not knowing what to think of the alteration that he perceived in her, essayed for some days to discover that in her eyes, which was quite contrary to what was in her heart. That extreme respect might have provoked any other besides Mary of England; and there are but few Lovers, who in the fury of jealousy, would not have taken it for indifferency. But as she only loved, because she was beloved, so she made the best use of the various Sentiments that attend love. She always devised arguments to excuse the inconstancy that she complained of; and by strongest reason drawn from the stock of most tender affection, she sometimes persuaded herself, that the effects which she had caused in the heart of Brandon, whilst he was but nothing, were not to be expected from the Duke of Suffolk. He loved me, said she, as the Daughter and Sister of his King. He hath used me as a pleasant apparation to entertain his idle thoughts, whilst he had none that were serious; and now that he is what he deserves to be, he applies himself to that which he may obtain. If thou wert not of the blood of Lancaster, continued she, and could he promise himself of thee, what he thinks he may expect of another, he would love thee still, as he hath loved thee, and overlove thee. And thereupon giving way to the mild Sentiments, by which the pretended infidelity of Suffolk might be justified; Let us pardon then, said she, let us pardon him, for an injury which respect and fear only makes him commit against our love. Let us do justice to that tender affection, whereof we have received so great Testimonies; this is probably the perfectest instance that he could render us, and it costs him doubtless too dear, to be undervalved by unjust suspicions. But jealousy usurping again the dominion over her heart, such lofty reasonings did not at all satisfy her. She had much  to conceive how a Lover could renounce the thing he loves; and then concluding, that love which always slights and gets above reason and decorum, is not so tame, she found herself much disposed to judge no more in favour of Suffolk. Besides, his true extraction more and more fortified her jealousy; and thinking that the reasons which she allowed to Brandon, or Duke of Suffolk, did not so well suit with a Prince of York: what appeared to her to be an excess of love or discretion in the one, had not the same character in the other. And the very Glory which he had acquired in France, made his present Conduct a little suspicious to her. She saw him so well supported by his own worth, that she could not but sometimes think that he intended to build his Fortune thereon: and as the King appeared so much the less favourable to their Union, that he had seemed much inclined to it before, and that he reflected on it very seriously; so the services that the Duke of Suffolk rendered to the lovely Tilney, which jealousy made appear far more assiduous than they were, though all was but an effect of complaisance, made her often enraged against herself, and condemn all her own goodness. At length after a long conflict within herself, so great as to make her compare her own marvellous and rare perfections, with the ordinary and indifferent Qualities of her pretended Rival: as she loved to the utmost extent of love, and that her jealousy was altogether gentle and sublime, and had nothing ragged nor low, she found herself reduced to a necessity of speaking. But she did it with so expressive and sensible an air, that she had hardly opened her mouth, when Suffolk by her first word discovering the cause of that discontent which he could not guests at, needed no more but a single sigh to allay her trouble. Their Sentiments as well as looks were soon agreed, and they expressed themselves so intelligibly in that manner, and understood one another so well, that being both fully satisfied, and fixing their eyes on one another for some time, they needed no other language to speak their thoughts. Suffolk being ravished to see himself so dear to the Princess, as to inspire into her jealousy, seemed by silence and other signs of submission, to thank her for such a new favour, which he never believed himself able to deserve. But at length he broke that so eloquent silence, to complain of her too much reservedness; and the Princess perceiving that his complaint was just, and she in kindness obliged to suffer it; made appear by a most engaging blush, that she desired he should not persist therein. So that love which lays hold on all occasions, to make Lovers speak, raising an officious contest betwixt them on that subject, was the cause that the Princess Mary came insensibly to discover all that she had concealed in her thoughts. At this time it was, that the Duke of Suffolk found himself raised to the top of felicity. He confessed himself very far short of the discretion she allowed him, and by transports of gratitude, which could never with good grace be employed but on that occasion, considering the state of his fortune, showing himself as ambitious as she desired he should be, he obliged her twice to tell him, that if he were not, it behoved him to become so. The good thoughts of the King her Brother, whereof he had given her an account in her sickness, and the reflections that since that time she had made thereon, which very seasonably she called to mind, were of great advantage to her modesty in an entertainment of that nature. She easily thought, that having the approbation of her Brother and King, on whom she solely depended, she had no distances to stand on. She entreated him to make his advantage of that, and Brandon made no difficulty to obey her. But fortune allowed them only this calm of hope and joy, that she might more cruelly expose them to the fury of the storm she prepared for them.  
The End of the first Part.   

THE English Princess, OR THE Duchess QUEEN. The Second PART.  
THE DUKE of Longueville, with some other French, being at London, Prisoner at large, under no other Confinement but his word, lived at Court in Princely Magnificence; and having occasion daily to see the beautiful Princess Mary, though his arm which he carried in a scarf since his hurt, still pained him, had nevertheless but too many easy minutes to consider all the charms of her Beauty. For nine or ten months' time he had endeavoured by all probable arguments to resist the vanity of such thoughts: the Quality of Daughter and Sister to a King, promised already in marriage to the heir of the Crown of Spain, and the open War betwixt France and England, allowed him no great hopes. But he became at length passionately in love, by frequent representing to himself the reasons that should have hindered it. He thought it no error to take pleasure in beholding the fairest Princess in the world. He looked upon the frequent occasions that he sought of entertaining her, to be but the amusement of a Prisoner; and thinking to secure his heart from love by the many impossibilities of enjoyment, he fancied there was no great danger in desiring to please her. In the mean time it befell him, as he would have foretold to any other in the like disposition. He came even to forget that he was a Prisoner; and as love delights in mystery and intrigues, entering into confidence with Mary of England, he gave her a full discovery of the secret of his King and Masters Court. The aversion that the late Queen of France had against the Duke of Valois, and the fear that she was in, lest the Duchy of Bretannie should be for ever united to the Crown of France, afforded him ample subjects of discourse. He told her all the attempts which that implacable Queen had made to hinder that Union from taking effect by the marriage of her eldest Daughter, to a Prince whom she could not endure. She added, that though the matter was accomplished, yet the Duke of Valois seemed not much satisfied therewith; and that having no Children by Madam, and most people doubting whether ever he should have any, he was already, perhaps, projecting to do with her, as the King his Father-in-law had done with Jane of France; so that the Daughter was very like to undergo the same fortune and usage which her Mother's beauty had occasioned to the Sister of CHARLES the Eight; that the King was very infirm, and gave no hopes of long life; and by the instance of the Princess herself, to whom he was speaking, who had been ineffectually engaged to the heir of Spain, making no account of the marriage of Claudia of France, with the presumptive heir of LOWIS the Twelfth, he easily concluded, that if she would accept of his service in that negotiation, without any long expectation, she might see it successfully brought to a period. And thereupon, giving way to his own thoughts, he cried, That his greatest happiness would be to see her Queen of France; and though to say the truth, his intentions were neither the most sincere nor discreet that might be imagined, yet it was not so easy for the young Princess to penetrate into the folly of them. What vivacity and briskness so ever she had, mischief and disorder were far from her thoughts. Her tender and passionate air, was sometimes injurious to her virtue; and as she was every way obliging, so it was most commonly imagined by all that had the honour to see her, that the Conquest of her was not very difficult. In this then the Duke of Longueville, as well as many others, found himself deceived; who in stead of a lawful hope, feeding his love with the vain expectations, which his desires and appearances shaped for him, by making Mary of England Queen of France; he entertained hardly any thought for her, which he expressed not under so fair a pretext. Though the Princess was not affected by his Discourses in the manner that he could have wished; she was nevertheless well-pleased to hear them. His truly French humour, and gallantry, had so great a resemblance to her own, that she still entertained the Duke of Suffolk with all that he said to her; and he who had received no disquiet from his former Rivals, was but at first slightly moved with this last. He imputed this new correspondence to the natural freedom of the Princess, and did not condemn her jollity. But jealousy that began to work in him, began likewise to shake his confidence, and the disquiet of mind by little and little following the emotions of his heart, he took the alarm at last, and grew so jealous, that he became uneasy to himself. The care and means that the Princess essayed to reassure and compose him, wrought no great effects; and his grief increased so much, that he having refused all the gentle remedies, which with greatest sincerity she offered to him, she resolved without speaking a word, at length to employ the strongest. For that end she denied the Duke of Longueville any more access to her; and because he continued obstinate to the contrary, she was about to have spoken to the King, that he might send him back into France upon his word, or confine him to some of his houses in the Country.  
The noise of that would have been great without doubt, and the King who could not prevail on the mind of Suffolk by other means, would not have spared that way of curing him, had she but in the least proposed it. The repose of that favourite was now become as dear to the King as his own; and if the Princess had not been promised to the young Archduke by a solemn treaty, the breach whereof had not as yet been approved by the two Houses of Parliament; it is certain that he would have bestowed her on him, upon his return from France, when he made him Duke of Suffolk. But he had measures to observe in that affair, by reason of the King of Spain, who would not have failed to have complained of such a marriage to the contempt of his Grandson. He had the like to observe with his Queen, who was Aunt to that Prince; and being divided betwixt so important considerations, he found it one of those thorny affairs, wherein Kings are in some manner afraid to make use of their absolute power. And that was the reason that he spoke no more of it: which at first troubled all the Court, and gave grounds of believing that he entertained other thoughts. But the removal of the Duke of Longueville would have cost him nothing; so that Suffolk no sooner understood that the Princess intended to propose it, but he prevented her, and resolving to overcome himself, or to die, rather than to admit of such a remedy, the interest of the person whom he loved wrought on his heart, what he was unable to perform for his own repose. Matters than reassumed almost their former face; and the Duke of Longueville, who knew nothing of the disorder which he caused, nor of the evil wherewith he had been threatened, continued his Gallantries, but with this difference, that the Princess concerned at the troubles of Suffolk, seemed not to him to have the same freedom of humour as formerly. He judged of that sometimes in her favour, and sometimes to her prejudice: according to the freakishness of Lovers, who for one and the same thing are many times both glad and sorrowful; and as he had a good conceit of himself, so he inclined rather to the one side than the other. But hardly was that disorder appeased, when it broke out again more cruelly than before; for some Letters by a strange fatality, being come to London, which gave advice that the King of France designed a new marriage with an Italian Princess; that bad rumour, which seemed not in the least to have any relation to the fortune of Suffolk, was the utter overthrow of all his hopes.  
The Duke of Longueville, who found no fairer pretext to Colour his Love for the English Princess, but that of seeing her Queen of France, and considering that all that he had said in respect of the Duke of Valois heir of the Crown, was but a dull notion, wherewith he was not himself much flattered; seeing that he knew several things of the marriage of that Prince, with the Princess Claudia, that were far different from what the pleasure of discourse and his passion had made him say on that subject; so soon as he was informed of the news from Paris, without examining whether it was false or true, he conceived a more sensible and specious notion; and the interest of the Kingdom joined to that pretended desire of a new marriage, which was published of his King, perfected in his mind that Image. The age of LOWIS the Twelfth afforded him new delights, whensoever he reflected thereon; and if it be free once to declare what he had always in his thoughts, he imagined that the lovely Princess in the embraces of an old Husband, oppressed with the Gout, and many other infirmities, might be very well allowed some liberty. This idle fancy than made his flame sparkle; so that having rendered her a visit upon occasion of the report that went of the King of France, with eyes glanceing with the joy that he desired to raise in her, having premised such circumstances as he judged proper for his design, he expressed himself with so prepossessed and contented an air, that he left her hardly the liberty to say any thing against his overture. The Princess only seemed not at all surprised, and as if she had thought on nothing less, giving him a cold answer, that he designed her for every body, she allowed him no opportunity of insisting in his discourse. The jealousy of Suffolk created her too much trouble, to entertain him on such a subject; and she was so far from giving the least check to the hopes which she desired him to continue in, by so vain a consideration, that for all the Crowns of the World, she would not have disturbed the quiet of his heart. So that the Duke of Longueville, finding her not so easy to be persuaded in respect of LOWIS the Twelfth, as he believed she might have been in favour of the Duke of Valois; and imagining that the old age of the former, caused in her that aversion, and as he was not much concerned, whether she was satisfied, or not to be Queen of France, provided she were so; he thought it best in that conjuncture, to make a matter of state of it. But the King with whom he was to negotiate, being prepossessed to the contrary, as well as the Princess, gave him no more satisfaction than she had done; and when he was pressed to speak his mind, he answered him, That a proposition wherein all Europe was concerned, sounded not well from the mouth of a Prisoner. Yet for all this the Duke was not discouraged. He wrote to the King his Master, and with his Letter sent the Picture of Mary of England; and being a more successful negotiator at distance, than in presence; the affairs of Italy being now somewhat composed by the death of Pope Julius, to whom LEO the Tenth succeeded, and the Ministers of France finding their advantages in an alliance with England, he received an answer according to his desire.  
Then it was that poor Suffolk perceived his ruin manifest. The Duke of Longueville was the first that drew his blood at the Battle of Spurs: he was the first that infected his mind with the sullen poison of jealousy, which troubled all his delights at London; and as a fatal enemy was now to disquiet the rest of his days. And indeed, he strove no more to resist the matter; nor did he so much as seek ease by complaining, lest that by flattering so his grief, it might break out against his will; and that his virtue whereof he then stood so much in need, should be weakened thereby. It was to no purpose for the Princess to discourse him about that subject. It was to no purpose for her to employ all her Charms with him; and to upbraid him with the sharpest cuts of Love, that she found he loved her no more, since that he yielded her to another; for he had not only the power to be silent before her, but he maintained to the last, that rigorous conflict wherein nothing but the love of her made him resist; and the King his Master, with all his dexterity and goodness, produced but still less effects on him. Never was there so much constancy in so tender and afflicted a soul. He entertained the Princess Mary no more, but with the Grandeur and Beauties of France. He urged to her by solid reasons, that the most glorious passion was, the desire to reign over the most illustrious people of the Universe. He went farther to encourage her, by pretending that his own interest was therein concerned; and as if he had been the most covetous of all men, who was indeed the most liberal, he seemed only then possessed with the hopes of the great riches that he expected from her Crown. The soul must without doubt be great, which can love in that strain; and ordinary passions are unable to renounce themselves in that manner. But the fair Princess, to whom he rendered so rare an instance of a perfect love, repaid it by another no less wonderful on her part. The Crown of France seemed nothing to her in respect of Suffolk's heart, and being sensible to the utmost of the unspeakable pleasure that is found in being loved as one loves, that was to her so Sovereign a blessing, that no other earthly advantage could equal it. She disputed therefore with him the possession of his heart, which she desired still to enjoy, as he contended for the loss of hers, which he was willing she should deprive him of; and her lovely eyes bore already the marks of the wrong which the tears she shed, did them. The King, between whose arms she had cast herself to bewail, and to overcome the virtue of Suffolk, knew no more how to govern sometime the one, sometime the other. As she had been accustomed to conceal from him nothing of her passion, and as it may be said that he was the sole confident of her Love, so neither had he been wanting to her in any comfort or remedy. He made her the Mistress of herself; and being ready to repass into France at the head of an Army, under divers pretexts to renew the War there, he desired no better than to trouble all Europe, that he might re-establish Tranquillity in her heart. But it was not enough for these great Remedies to produce their effect, that they were prepared by the hand of the King, and accepted by the Princess; Suffolk must likewise approve and make use of them. If they were good for her, they seemed of no value to him. He condemned them already, and found fault with them every way. He designed to arm against them, protesting at what rate soever to oppose them; and the Amorous Princess had to do with a Lover that desired nothing more, than to triumph over himself, that he might Crown her.  
This violent state of affairs lasted two full Months, and no body understood the secret. The melancholy of the Princess was imputed to a dispute that she had had with the Queen concerning the Duchess of Salisbury. The Court was divided betwixt them upon that account; and the King fomented their division, that he might the better conceal the Amorous mystery whereof he was the Guardian: when that the proposals of the Duke of Longueville were again renewed with such formalities, as suffered them not to be rejected. The Pope wrote to that purpose. The Venetians concerned themselves therein. John Duke of Albany, Regent of Scotland, during the Minority of the King his Nephew, interested himself in the affair with all the earnestness that the concerns of his Pupil required; and these so distant Potentates in this manner form an Union in opinions, to make a most cruel War against the Resolutions of the Princess Mary; but what deference soever the King of England was obliged to have for so considerable solicitations; though besides that, the alliance of LOWIS the Twelfth was of such moment, that it could not be rejected by a sober Prince: nevertheless, the compassion that he had for his Sister, the high esteem that he made of Suffolk; and his natural propensity to all intrigues of Love, would have made him find out ways enough to elude the suit of the one, and the importunities of the rest; if the continual perfidies of the King of Spain his Father-in-law, had not in a manner forced him to comply. That cunning Prince, having drawn the late Pope Julius into the League, whereof the English were at all the charge, and the Spaniards reaped all the profit, began to deceive him in the first Pyrenean War. He seized on the Kingdom of Navarre, not minding the English Forces, which he had persuaded to Land at Bayonne; and who finding themselves disappointed of their hopes of being able to gain the places which he promised them in Guyenne, were constrained to return. Since that, he had broken his word to him at the Sieges of Therowenne and Tournay, where he neither assisted him with men nor money; and had of late again made a truce with LOWIS the Twelfth, without his advice.  
So that, to all these injuries joining the aversion that he had to Queen Catherine, the Daughter of that crafty Prince; and projecting already the divorce which he made from her since, he found that occasion so favourable, that his proper interest prevailed with him more than the consideration of his Sister. Some have said, that it was only an effect of his inconstancy; and it is certain, that he was none of the firmest in his resolutions. But it is no less true, that the displeasure which he conceived against his Father-in-law, and against his Queen, had no small share in that change, that broke the Ice at first; and the alliance of France made his satisfaction appear afterwards more speedy and easy: had it not been for these considerations, he might have possibly persisted in his former design; and a more steady mind than his, by so many reasons could not but have too many temptations to change.  
The proposals therefore of the King of France were accepted. Suffolk was one of the first that assented to them; and as at that time the Princess Mary abandoned herself wholly to grief, so that generous Lover, upon the refusal of the King, who could not any longer comfort her but by false hopes, undertook to do it. That charge was, without doubt, the sum of his afflictions. There is no violence like to that, when a man inflamed with Love, forces himself by an excess of affection, to persuade the person whom he loves, that she ought no more to love him. But that same love which he strove to hid, being the principle that set all the movements of his heart to work, did hourly betray his design. What garb soever he put on, what shape soever he borrowed, all was still love, it would not be disguised; and where it was most under constraint, there it broke forth with greatest lustre. So that, the Princess who felt herself touched, even with the hardest things that Suffolk durst tell her, melting with compassion for the cruel trials that he put himself to for her sake, observed no measures on her part, to make him lay aside that forced Mask. But he having one day, when they were by themselves, urged her so far, that she was at length pierced with that greatness of Soul, that could not be made to stoop by the tenderness of hers; and finding nothing to upbraid her inexorable Lover with, but his secret Quality of Prince of York; she told him, that since he had been informed of that, he entertained not the same Sentiments for her as before. And grief afterward transporting her with a vehemency beyond her nature, she fell to exaggerate the hereditary hatred that the House of York bore against that of Lancaster: Adding, that she knew better what he was by his rigour, than by the prophecy of Merlin; and in sine, terming the reasons which he had heretofore alleged for his withdrawing from London, so soon as he had discovered his Birth, but artifices. She told him at length, that it was not she alone that was become odious to him, and that at that time he only desired a specious pretext to leave her, that he might go seek in France an occasion to head a Party against the King her Brother. This terrible discourse was even somewhat longer than impetuous discourses use to be; and the Duke of Suffolk, who knew very well that love in anger has sudden eruptions, to which nothing must be exposed, did not so much as by the least gesture or look, dream of interrupting her. He suffered her therefore to speak as long as she pleased, and even affected to put her in some kind of impatience for an answer: and when he thought that she had expected it long enough, he gently replied; That not having foreseen the reproach she made to him, it was not in his power to justify himself on the sudden; and that seeing his Crime was discovered, she had no more to do, but to punish him. And then beholding her with so much the more calmness, that she had spoken in passion: but, Madam, continued he, let me be delivered into the hands of the executioner, and let me die, you shall be Queen of France, and it shall be to me a delightful comfort, when I mount the scassold, to know that I am no more an hindrance to you to mount the Throne. About a year ago you knew not what reason might make you become mine enemy; now you have found it out: I am desirous you should be a Queen. Ah! Madam, cried he, I cannot be guilty of a lovelier Crime! With these words he would have departed, but the Princess stopped him; and being more out of countenance, and more afflicted for the unjust reproach that she had cast upon him, than for that she had drawn from him bursting forth in Tears at the door of the Closet, she gave but too evident signs of her trouble and repentance.  
Suffolk on the other hand being deeply smitten with that new expression of grief, which completed his own, had no thoughts of insulting over it. He stood with his eyes fixed on the floor, directing thither his sighs, as well as looks; and very far from telling her, that she should let him go to the death to which she had condemned him, which another, perhaps, might have done, in a profound found silence he considered how he might mollify the deplorable condition which he saw her in, though he did not endeavour it for fear of reducing her to another as bad. He well perceived that his love disguised itself under all kinds of shapes; and that when it should glance forth under the colour of respect and pity, that would but revive in her the flames which he desired to smother, by making it appear. But as he clearly saw into the heart of the Princess, so she likewise penetrated into his. So that retracting of a sudden the unjust reproach which vexation had made her charge him with: Why do ye force me, said she, to speak what I do not think? And why must I be constrained, seeing I cannot bend you by a real tenderness, which you know so well to be rooted in my heart, to attempt to terrify you by an imaginary hatred which I affect as well as I can? What is become of us, Suffolk, continued she, that your virtue makes me despair, and my affection oppresses you? At these words animated by throbs, sighs, and tears, which love being reduced to the utmost extremity, forced from the loveliest mouth, and fairest eyes in the world, it was not in the power of poor Suffolk any longer to resist: his strength failed him, and he fell down upon a Couch. The Princess affrighted to see him look pale and faint, began to be in the same fears for him, that he was daily in for her. And as he had omitted nothing that might persuade and overcome her, so than it fell to her turn to spare no means that could satisfy and bring him again to himself. She told him that she yielded, promised to do whatsoever he would have her; and what could she indeed deny him in that sad condition? And what was she not obliged to do to relieve him? However, their conversation could last no longer: the Duke of Suffolk must withdraw; and having with much ado crawled out of the apartment of the Princess, the Marquis of Dorset who met him, was obliged to Conduct him home.  
The disorder nevertheless that appeared in his countenance, was neither so considerable nor dangerous, as that which no body saw. But the one suspended the other. The oppression of the mind, hindered the distemper of body; and though he had had a Fever all night long, yet the Earl of Shrewsbury, who went next morning in the King's name to visit him, found him up. He went himself likewise to Court, the better to cloak all appearances; and having discoursed on several things with the King, Suffolk finding his virtue supported by secret advantages, which his master promised himself from the marriage of his Sister with the King of France, they agreed between themselves on the means to bring her to comply. But it was now no more necessary to come to extremities. She began of herself to resolve on it; and the death, or flight of the Duke of Suffolk, which she found to be otherways unavoidable, won by little and little from her fears a condescension to the negotiation of the Duke of Longueville, to which her Love could never have consented. So that, that worthy Lover, but the most unfortunate of all Lovers, seeing he was too well beloved, being come to her apartment, after that the King and he had agreed what could not be in any other way concluded, found her still in the same disquiet for his health, that he had left her in the day before. But she spoke no more to him of any thing which she knew might put him in trouble. She fell rather into a kind of Lethargy; and whilst she used violence with herself to conceal it, for fear of stirring up his compassion, he fell softly to entertain her with those wild and chimerical hopes, which the worst of fortunes cannot take from the unfortunate, when they have a mind to imagine them. She made a show of being flattered therewith, as well as he. She began to spare him, as he spared her; and whilst with a hard curb she checked her more tender passions, giving the reins to the most violent that she was capable of; the Duke of Longueville became the object of them. She did nothing but detest the day of his Captivity, and with so much the more violence that he revenged himself so cruelly on him, that had taken him. In a word, she could not look on him, but as a mortal enemy, whose sight she protested she could never endure; and it may be said of that French Prince, that desiring by indirect ways to gain all, he lost all; and that as there was never any Lover, whose notions were more foolish, so likewise was there never any who took falser measures. However his negotiation succeeded according to the orders which he had received: and the General of Normandy, extraordinary Ambassador of France, came to London to conclude the marriage and peace; in the treaty of which the young King of Scotland was comprehended, with excommunication against the breakers, because it was authorised by the Pope.  
After this, the King of England, and Duke of Suffolk, made it all their care to recover the cheerful humour of the Princess, which seemed to be banished from her soul for the rest of her days. The Marquis of Dorset, the Earls of Surrey, Skrewsbury, Worcester, young Buckingham, and all her former Lovers, who now desisted from their pretensions, employed themselves in that with all their might. The Queen herself willing to contribute thereto, made the first offers of being reconciled to her; and the Duchess of Salisbury, the Countess's of Derby and Pembrock, did in emulation of one another all that they could to please her. But her distemper was of another nature, than to yield to such weak remedies; and there was none in the world but Suffolk able to mitigate it, if he could have wholly concealed his own. Whatever apparent satisfaction he made show of, she perceived but too well what an extreme love, with extreme generosity made him suffer. So that after he had kept himself on his legs beyond humane strength he fell sick, which overwhelmed her with new troubles, that brought her shortly into a condition not much different from his own. There was much ado to conceal the real cause of it from the Duke of Longueville, who began shrewdly to suspect the matter. But in fine, the secret was not discovered. The preparatives for the marriage were thereby only a little retarded, and Suffolk at three week's end, by the healthfulness of his constitution surmounting the bad humours, which the vexations of mind had stirred in him, at length reestablished all matters by his recovery of health. He was very desirous not to have accompanied the Princess unto France, and he had but too many reasons to decline it. But as she demanding of him that last complaisance, could not forbear to tell him, that her resolution was not as yet very firm; and that even he had not prevailed with her but upon that condition, he was obliged to condescend. It is true also, that having bound him to that hard necessity, and well foreseeing what he might thereby suffer in the sequel, she omitted to tell him nothing that might render it supportable to him. The hopes wherewith he had flattered her, were the same with which she flattered him. She made seriously the same predictions to him, which he had only made to her out of pity, and to amuse her thoughts; she grounded both the one and other on reasons, to give them greater authority, and representing to him always, that he ought not to forsake her in the Precipice, into which he did cast her, and at that time especially, when nothing but his Presence could help her to endure the sight of it; it may be said, that as she received from him so singular a proof of affection, so though she gave herself to another, yet she still retained the entire possession of her heart for him.  
In the mean time the English Fleet was richly equipped for the passage of the Princess. The King her Brother having brought her to Dover, conducted her above two Leagues out at Sea: he could not, no more than she, refrain tears at parting; and notwithstanding of the advantage that he promised himself from the alliance of LOWIS the Twelfth, yet he found that separation so grievous, that he had sometimes a design to have renounced it. Then did he repent, that he had altogether preferred his own interests to the satisfaction of his dear Sister; and he reproached himself rigorously with it, as he comforted the unfortunate Suffolk, who to complete his afflictions, had also the unprofitable grief of that Prince to listen to. But though it was unprofitable, and out of season, yet it was sincere; and he had remained long comfortless for the absence of Mary, had he not by presaging the future, grounded on his own wishes a strong hope of seeing her again shortly. The Duchess of Salisbury, and Countess of Pembrock, as being her Governesses, passed the Sea with her, with several other Ladies, and Women for her service in France; particularly her four Maids of honour, Rene Winfield, Susanna Dabenay, Martha Sellinger, and the young Ann of Wolen. She was attended by a vast number of men, but who were all again to return with the Duchess of Salisbury, and other Ladies after the Ceremonies of the marriage were over; except the Duke of Suffolk, the Marquis of Dorset, and young Grace his Brother, whose Presence the Queen had desired for six Months; these last two, that she might a little disguise the inclination that she had for the other. They had a most favourable passage, though it being about the end of October, they could not have promised themselves so fair weather; and that lovely Fleet having come to an Anchor before Boulogne, with a salute from all the Guns of the City, and Ships in the Harbour, the Duke of Valois, with the Dukes of Alencon and Bourbon, the Counts of S. Poll, and Guise, and a great crowd of Courtiers and Gentlemen in Magnificent pomp, came to wait on her at her disembarking. Next day the Duke of Valois, in name of his Father-in-law, espoused the Princess: and the day following conducted her to Abbeville, where the King in Person completed the Ceremony; and from thence passing by St. Dennis, where she was Crowned, the King arrived at Paris, with the acclamations of all his People, who spared nothing for the solemnisation of his Nuptials and Return.  
The Lists and Scaffolds for the Carrousel, which he had appointed, were already finished in the place Des Tournelles. The structure and ornaments thereof represented the Conquest of the Milanois, for the which he prepared himself under the Auspexes of the Queen; and the Cartels and Defies, which in the name of the Defendants were two days after affixed to five Shields, fastened on five Pillars, which supported the triumphal Arch, through which they entered the field, received shortly after their answers in name of the Assailants. It was free, as it is always on such occasions, to propose or contradict such Propositions as any one judged fit; and the Shields, or Argent, Sable, and Gules, were only to distinguish what Combats were to be on foot, what on horseback, what at lance, and what at sword. And the fifth of Azure, in the middle of the other four denounced the defence of the triumphal Arch, which was contrived by way of a Fortress, where twenty Champions were to defend the Assault against sixty. There was no difficulty in ordering the Courses and Combats; for they were not to enter the Lists, but in Squadrons, where they had placed themselves according to their inclination; and the Duke of Valois, the Counts of Vendosm, S. Poll, and Guise, that led the four first, having their march regulated by their Birth, the Duke of Suffolk, and Marquess of Dorset, who conducted the other two under the devices of the Queen, easily ordered theirs. There was no contest, but about the choosing of the Defendants and Assailants of the Fortress, by which the Carrousel was to conclude: because every one desired to be first, as in the place where there was greatest honour to be acquired. But at length, the Duke of Valois, who must have had the place had he still persisted in the dispute, having taken upon him the part to attack, by order of the King, that he might the better represent the Siege of Milan, which he had in his head, the matter was referred to Lot amongst the other Competitors; and it fell upon the Count of Guise, and the Duke of Suffolk: of whom the latter in the sequel, amidst the troubles that oppressed him, had some particular reasons to be better satisfied than another. The new Conquests that the young Queen made so soon as she appeared in France, occasioned him quickly new vexations; and though in seeing him suffer, and she suffering perhaps as much as he, a part of his cares were suspended: yet that admirable Beauty, which had so soveraingly triumphed over the subjects of the King her Brother, to his continual disquiet, had no less efficacy on those of the King her husband. It would be too great an enterprise to speak of all those who were smitten by her. Many sighed, and few durst complain so loud as they would willingly have done; for besides that Kings cannot endure the declared Lovers of their Queens, the Duke of Valois, who was one of the first, was not of an humour to suffer Rivals.  
This young Prince, of an heroical stature, and of a constitution as amorous as his age and eyes testified him to be, returned not from Boulogne in the same tranquillity that he went. Marry of England at first sight, made a powerful impression on his heart; and after he had entertained her some time, he was no sooner retired with the Seigneur de Chabot, one of his favourites, but that repenting his marriage with Claudia of France, he told him, that he came from the sight of one who would have been far more acceptable to his heart; and that considering the age and infirmity of the King, it was cruelty to give him so young and beautiful a wife. Acquaintance and conversation smothered not these first Sentiments. The tender and passionate air of the young Queen, which promised that which she never bestowed, daily quickened them: and as she thereby diverted herself, that she might have occasion by such a confidence to divert the pensive Suffolk; so the Duke of Valois mistaken by an outside, which deceived all people, gave many times the reins to desires, that led him farther than was fitting for his repose. To this may be added, that the Duke of Longueville provoked by the aversion, which the Queen expressed to him after the treaty of her marriage, instigated that young Prince, by the pretended facility of the Conquest. The foolish thoughts which he entertained at London, turned into despite at Paris, where by means of a ransom payable within a certain time, he found himself at liberty; and whilst his arm which he carried still in a scarf, since his fall at Therowenne, suffered him not to be of the Carrousel, all his thoughts were how to create her trouble. So that having procured to be admitted into the confidence or the Duke of Valois, as a person who could instruct him better than any other, in the ways of satisfying his passion, he was the boutefeau, that incessantly pushed him forward to the utmost enterprises. In fine, he inflamed the heart of that Prince, who was naturally very susceptible of such flames, to that pass, that the young Queen could no longer doubt but that he was in love with her; and as she was neither fierce nor ungentle, so she appeared neither surprised nor offended thereat. There was none possibly in all the Court but the King, who perceived it not; and Madam being already accustomed to palliate the youthful disorders of her husband, never spoke of it, but to enjoin silence to others. But the Protonotary Du prat, who governed all the house of Angoulesm, was not so easy. He was astonished at that which charmed the Duke of Valois his Master; and judging as rashly of the virtue of Mary of England, as the Duke of Longueville had done, he sensibly represented to him, that he having the greatest interest in the world not to solicit her to incontinence, she had the like not to be chaste; so that, as if no body but he could have hazarded with the Queen what Du prat feared, he himself began likewise to dread it. Besides, he would not have gone to Boulogne to espouse her for the King his Father-in-law, but upon the word of Francieres, his chief Physician, who had assured him that he would have no Issue by that marriage, so that the matter was of highest consequence. The passion that LOWIS the Twelfth had always to have a Son, would have hindered him from prying into any mystery. It is possible, he would have been glad to have been deceived, as he smiling told the General of Normandy, upon the first proposals that were made to him of marrying so young a Princess; and besides he had a pretty good opinion of himself still, to think that he could not be mistaken that way. Moreover, considering the zeal that the French have for the blood of their Kings, and the joy that they would have to see a Dolphin, there were none in France who could not take all that could be said on such an occasion for a mere Calumny. Insomuch that these important considerations having slackened the pursuit of the Duke of Valois, and being unwilling to lose a Crown for a Song, he only retained the delightful notion of a good fortune, which he thought very easy to be attained, and which was perhaps in the highest degree of impossibility. But though he left off speaking of Love, yet he ceased not to be amorous. His flame increased by the desire he had to quench it. And he became even so much the more jealous of his desired bless, that not daring himself to pretend to it, it continually ran in his head, that another, who might not have the reasons that he had to refuse the same, would upon the least attempt be sure to obtain the enjoyment thereof: and in this manner the fear of losing a Kingdom fomenting his jealousy, whilst during the Carrousel, he carefully avoided the occasions which would have at length undeceived him as to his thoughts concerning the Queen, he fell so strictly to examine all things, that within a few days he discovered the inclinations that she had for the Duke of Suffolk. He perceived the distinction that she put betwixt him, the Marquis of Dorset, and young Grace; notwithstanding of the dexterity she had, always to join these two last in the favours which she showed the other; and the troublesome Duke of Longueville, joining to these things, what he had heard, (though but confusedly at London) failed not to confirm all his suspicions.  
Thus than you see the Duke of Valois in great perplexity. It is not now jealousy that torments him. The fear of losing a Crown seems to have destroyed his love, and his thoughts tending only to prevent the consequences wherewith Du prat had threatened him, the Queen and Suffolk appeared to him every moment, as two sprights coming to dethrone him. But being of an open and frank soul, he quickly discovered his pain to him that was the cause of it. My Lord Suffolk, said he, (drawing him aside one evening in the King's Antichamber) you love the Queen, and the Queen does not hate you: but I would desire your love might not cost me a Crown. Suffolk amazed at this discourse, however dissembled his surprise. He asked with a great deal of respect what the matter was, and by questions wide of the purpose, endeavoured to hid the emotions of his heart. But the Prince, who desired to sift him by his discourse, resolved not to ramble, and returning to his design: Yes, my Lord Duke of Suffolk, replied he, you love the Queen, and the Queen loves you; and though I be no enemy to Ladies and their Gallants, yet certainly I shall be one to the Queen and you, if your Gallantry take the liberty that I suspect. Wherefore, continued he, oblige me not to become so. The King cannot live long; and when the Queen is a Widow, I promise not to oppose your desires. So smart an expression, such peremptory words, and the discomposed air that the Duke of Valois spoke them in, permitted not Suffolk longer to dissemble the Queen's Honour, which he saw so openly struck at, but obliged him to take measures by himself. So that, to do the best that possibly he could, in the secret disturbance he found himself in, he began immediately to complain of those who raised-so injurious reports of the best and most discreet Princess in the world. He would not say, that he spoke only so to her disadvantage, because he found that her virtue disappointed the hopes which he might have conceived against it. That would have showed him to have been more acquainted, than he ought to have been with the affairs of her whom he intended to justify. To praise her, he thought was enough, by affirming still that she was not well known; and that he having the honour to have served her from the Cradle, had known worthy persons in England over-shoot themselves, as well as some in France mistake the meaning of her condescending behaviour. And finding himself afterward sufficiently re-assured to venture on a piece of raillery, upon the account that the Duke himself raised his honour, by his fear of losing a Crown, he concluded, that for the future he should take care not to give him any Umbrage; and that for that effect, and to give him full satisfaction, he would take the first occasion to pray the King his Master to recall him. To this the Duke of Valois, a Prince of a close disposition, and sometimes a little too credulous, answered, That he desired not so much; but that his jealousy was pardonable, that he was handsome, that he had already occasioned some discourse at London, and that he would take it very ill, if he made it worse at Paris; that he had reason to suspect, after the freedom that he had used with him, that he would urge matters too far, but that to repeat what he had already said, he gave him his promise not to cross his happiness, when the fit time was come. Suffolk, that he might not put a new edge on the jealousy of the Duke of Valois, let him speak as much as he thought fit, without seeming concerned at what he said. He made it his business rather to undeceive him by an indifferency, which in so delicate a juncture himself ought to observe as well as he; and if he affected it not, so well as he desired, at least he had that influence upon him, as to make him sometimes doubt of what he had believed before. But though he left him sufficiently satisfied, yet he found no reason to be so himself; for the reputation of the Queen was so dear to him, that he would have rather banished himself from her Presence, than have occasioned the least stain to her honour. Insomuch that having no body but her to complain to, of the discourse of the Duke of Valois; and having measures to take in regard thereof, which he judged convenient to agree upon with her, he rendered her an account of all, exact enough to create her much affliction, notwithstanding of his care to soften what was hard and injurious in the terms. But that which touched her nearest, was the resolution that he had taken of returning to England, that he might prevent the detraction which he saw ready to break out. Her Glory was not so dear to her, as the Presence of Suffolk; and relying on the great stock of her virtue, she cared not much to lose a little of its Odour, provided she might retain him. But being interrupted before they could conclude any thing, and separated, with great impatience to meet again, the means of that became daily so difficult, that they found themselves in a short time reduced to great perplexities.  
Though the Queen entertained a grudge against the Duke of Valois, yet she thought less of doing him any ill office with the King, than to secure herself from the Spies that he employed about her. She seemed even afraid to provoke him; so circumspect did Love make her, that she might enjoy the Presence of her dear Suffolk: and as she went to bed every night, much dejected in the apprehension, that she should hear of his departure; so there was easily to be observed in her some little glimpse of joy, when she saw him again next morning. To that continual tossing, were joined likewise other agitations that increased her pain. Then it was that she rendered full justice to the merit of Suffolk; the Quality of Queen of France had not at all changed her. She continually lamented that she was not his Wife, and all the advantages of her Crown, all the complaisance of a Husband that adored her, being unable to comfort her for the loss of a man who deserved so much to be loved, did not sweeten the bitterness that was mingled with the affectionate compassion she had for him. Suffolk on his part, as much ashamed as afflicted at the disquiet which he occasioned to the Queen, upbraided himself always with weakness, for having followed her into France. He wondered at himself, how he could have remained there after her marriage; and with indignation putting the question to himself every minute, what it was that he could expect at her Court, but dishonour by his Presence, he would have willingly given his life for the reparation which he thought he owed her.  
But whilst in this manner they afflicted each other, without being able to speak together, but by their eyes, nor to complain, but by some Billets which they entrusted to the faithful Kiffen, their enemies not satisfied to hold them thus on the Rack, thought to add terror to it, that they might oblige them to perform by fear, what they perceived them not disposed to do by reason. Besides the Duke of Longueville, there were also the Signior of Montmorency, Chatillon, and Chalbot, who being jealous of the advantages that Suffolk had won at the Bariere, from the bravest Champions of the Court, conspired together to slander the Queen and him. The Duke of Valois, already prepossessed by some, and incited by others, could suspect none but him to have put that inscription on the Shield Azure, which bore, That the modest blush of the Roses of England, was as inviolable, as the Candour of the Lilies of France. He perceived very well that that was a mysterious answer, to what he had said to him; and not daring to dispute that truth, though he much doubted it, he contented himself to write underneath, That it belonged not to Defendants to maintain that; and that none but the conquerors of the Fortress deserved such honour. In the mean while being checked by his own conscience, he began to fear that the King might come to understand the reason why they disputed such a matter: though the proposition being mingled with the interest of the Lilies, seemed not to bear any private meaning in a Tournoy, only designed to solemnize their Union with the Roses of England. So that some of his Confidents having taken upon them to free him from his trouble, bethought themselves of a stratagem; which was, that at the end of the Ball, which was danced every evening after the Carrousel, at the same time that the Queen did find on her Toylet a Paper containing these words, If within three days the Duke of Suffolk depart not out of France, he is a dead man. Suffolk undressing himself, found such another in his pocket: but the same cause produced not in both of them the same effects; for though the Queen terrified, and ready to go and awaken the King, who lay alone two nights before, passed the night in mortal trances; yet Suffolk exasperated to see matters driven to such an excess, resolved before his departure, to tell the Duke of Valois manfully, that murderers were not able to daunt him. He was fully resolved on this, when an English Monk brought him a Billet from the Queen, wherein was enclosed, that threatening Paper which she had received in the evening. She adjured him to be upon his Guard; and above all things to forbear the defence of the Forts, and all other Combats. But Suffolk unwilling to confirm her disquiet, and suppressing the Billet which he had received to the same purpose, made her answer in two words, That it was a false alarm, whereof he prayed her not to be afraid, nor take any notice. He was about a minute's time with the King, to tell him the same; and afterward continued his exercises in coursing and fight that day, as he was accustomed before; and behaved himself no worse against Chatillon, Bayard and Crequy, than he had done the days before against Moüy, Bonneval, and several others. In the mean time, the disturbed Queen, at what rate soever desired to speak with him. The bad weather which had put a stop to the Tournoy, seemed favourable enough for her design. And the atacking of the Fort, being by the King delayed for two days, that the Defendants and Assailants might have no cause to allege precipitation and haste, if they failed in their duties, invited her besides thereto, as a time too precious to be lost; and though all these reasons had been wanting, yet the extremity of her own desire was one so prevalent, that she could no longer resist it. So that as she went to the Ball which was hastened, because their other pleasures had ended too soon, having met him again in the King's Chamber, who was not very well, she bid him not dance so long as he was accustomed, but that he should withdraw into a place which she showed him: from whence the faithful Kiffen should guide him into a private Chamber, where the young Ann of Bolen, who for some days had been sick, was lodged.  
It was a nice enterprise, what circumspection soever might be used; and the Duke of Suffolk having imparted it to the Marquis of Dorset, who of a Rival was become his intimate friend, Dorset found it to be so. Nevertheless they concluded together, that the Queen, who without doubt had given all necessary orders, must not be refused; and the rather that she had perhaps such important matters to speak of, as she durst not commit to the uncertainty of a Billet. So that notwithstanding of the reluctancy that Suffolk had against that Interview, yet having taken his measures with the Marquis of Dorset, who took upon him the charge of watching without, he obeyed; and the intrigueing Kiffen, who stayed for him in the appointed place, led him into the Chamber of Ann of Bolen, without being observed by any. Afterward the Queen wearied by so many shows, but more by her own cares, having left the company, came to her apartment, conducted by the Duke of Valois, and Duke of Alencon. She caused her head to be undressed before them, as being very desirous of sleep, which obliged them to withdraw; and her Chamber-door being immediately shut, Judith Kiffen, who lay in her Wardrobe, by a backdoor dismissed the Maids that attended her. Shortly after she went to bed, more impatient than afraid to execute what she designed. She kept herself close a-bed, until an universal silence had assured her that all people had withdrawn; and so soon as she heard no more noise, she arose to go meet the Duke of Suffolk. The passage was pretty long. It behoved her first to enter a Closet, pass a Gallery that adjoined to a Chapel, and from thence by an entry half ruined, which heretofore served for a passage unto her apartment, go to the private Chamber, where the young Ann of Bolen was at that time attended only by one person in her sickness. All things went at first as well as the Queen could desire. She found Suffolk in the place appointed; and whilst Judith Kiffen returned to watch her Chamber, which was not so secure on the other side, where the Maids of honour lodged, they began their conversation. The Presence of Ann of Bolen laid no constraint on them, for she was one of their Confidents. So that giving full scope to their affections, they fell immediately to complain to one another; like Lovers, who desired no more but the freedom of complaint, and who could not when they would complain. But after these common expressions of mutual love, the Queen terrified at the Billet which she had sent him, desired to know from whence it came; and upon what ground he reckoned a threatening of that nature to be but a false alarm. The answer of Suffolk, though prepared beforehand, did not at all satisfy her; and they so perfectly understood one another, that it was very hard for them to take it for good Coyn. So that the Queen making another use of that constrained assurance which he affected, broke forth in rage against the Duke of Valois. It was to no purpose for Suffolk to tell her, that that Prince being vexed at the Cartel, which he had affixed on the Shield Azure, had no other design, but to hinder him from maintaining of it by the way that came first into his thoughts; she made no account of such a weak conjecture: and though the young Ann of Bolen joining in opinion with Suffolk, endeavoured to convince her, both of what he said, and of the necessity that there was to yield for some time to the persecution; yet was there no appearance of prevailing with her: when Judith Kiffen out of breath came running to acquaint her, that Mounsieur and Madam, were in the apartment of her Maids. This advice was a clap of thunder, and the Queen, who contested so strongly with Suffolk, had no more strength, but to follow Kiffen, who led her back to her bed shaking for fear. The thing that was most troublesome, was, that a retreat in so great haste, and so full of fear, could not be made without noise. Some body puffing along the Gallery, and the shutting of the door were heard. Sighs and Lamentations were distinguished, during the tumult; and there needed no more to confirm Monsieur and Madam in the suspicions, which had as great appearance as reality. In effect the Duke of Longueville having observed some disturbance in the Queen, during the Courses at the Barrier; having seen her earnestness to speak to the Duke of Suffolk in the King's Chamber, and by several actions afterwards remarked her impatience to leave the Ball, which she did almost as soon as he, the Duke of Valois could not in reason slight such advertisements: besides, Bonneval having by his order gone to Suffolk's lodging, and not finding him within, that seemed to him an evident proof of all that he apprehended. There remained but one way to make a clear discovery; so that having discoursed concerning that with Madam, that he might carry on his design with more civility, and less noise, he brought her with him to the Queen's apartment by the stairs of the Maids of honour; under pretext of playing with her at some small games, and that they had retired before the ordinary time. Sellinger, Winfield, and Dabenay told him but in vain, that the Queen was asleep. In vain the Lady D'aurigny their Governant, for all she was a French woman, prayed them that they would not awake her; for Madam, pretending still the more to be in a merry humour, continued the noise that was begun, whilst that du Terail, and du Trot, two Gentlemen belonging to the Duke of Valois, laid their ears to the Gallery, where there were many chinks. So that the spies had given an account of what they heard, when the Queen was upon her returning; and the Duke of Valois being out of all patience, Madam ventured to scratch the door, that she might essay to discover somewhat more by the answer that should be made to her. At that very nick of time the Queen was got a bed again; and Judith Kiffen being surprised, as people commonly are on such occasions, not being able to forbear to ask (who is there) left no possibility for the Queen to be ignorant, that it was Madam, who must not be denied entry. But to make amends for that fault, she had the present wit to tell her, that she should counterfeit herself affrighted by some Vision; and that having thereupon risen again, they had gone together into the Closet, and as far as the Gallery, to see what the matter could be. Insomuch that the door being opened to Madam, who seemed more and more impatient to be let in, the Queen who had nothing to say better, and who without doubt spoke more truth than was thought, failed not to complain that she had been put into a great fright. The Duke of Valois, who came after, demanded how, and for what? And the air of his countenance betraying the pretended cheerful humour, wherewith he said he was come, the Queen looking pale, and in confusion, had not much ado on her part, to make appear, that in effect fear hindered her to answer: but Judith Kiffen more resolute and cunning, finding in the disorder that she saw her in, not only means to conceal the trouble which she expressed not; but also to endeavour to deliver her from those that importuned her, cast herself betwixt them. And so staring and casting about her eyes, as if she had been still terrified by the Spirit, which she said she had seen all in white, she began to relate to them, how that it had appeared first in the Wardrobe, where by fearful gestures and motions it had obliged her to rise out of bed; that the Queen upon the noise she had made, being very timorous, could not remain in hers; that she had chosen rather to follow her naked as far as the Gallery, into which the Spirit entered; and that whether it was fear, or cold that had seized her, if it was no real Spirit, but some apparition made out of an humour, they that played such tricks, had no great regard to her health. That intelligible reproach, though delivered in bad French, checked a little the false mirth of those to whom it was directed. But the Lady D'aumont, to cover their disorder, taking up Judith Kiffen, replied, that Monsieur and Madam could not be accused of any thing, since they were but just come, and that in all probability the Queen had received the fright before their visit. The dextrous Judith, who knew well how to make use of every thing to serve her ends, seemed not to disagree. She did as those who suffer, and reckon the continuance of their pains by ages, when they have lasted but minutes; and she played her part so well, that the Duke of Valois, who could hear her no longer, because she said nothing of what he desired to know, took a Torch himself, entered into the Closet, and opened the door of the Gallery, as if he intended to see what she had seen. Kiffen was not in the least discomposed at that, though the danger seemed to increase. She continued the rehearsal of her Vision in her own language. She followed the Prince, to show him where the Spirit had disappeared. She led him even as far as the passage by the Chapel, being fully prepared to pray him to make no noise in that place, because of Ann of Bolen, whose sickness she said was very dangerous; but finding the door that she intended to open, (contrary to her expectation) well shut, she changed her design, and ended her story; saying, that if it was no apparition made of purpose, it must needs be then some soul departed, that desired the assistance of prayers. There was however no hole nor corner, either in the Gallery or Closet, which the Duke of Valois searched not. He entered even Kiffens Wardrobe. He looked under her bed, and into the Presses. He made the Lady D'aumont do as much under the Queens; and in fine, seeing he could no longer bear out the matter handsomely, but by showing an officious care, he went into the Antichamber, Hall, and as far as the great Staircase. After which, being of a good nature, and finding his distrust condemned by his ill success, he returned to the Queen with a more composed mien, than he had at his first coming: where employing himself in good earnest to re-assure her after her fear, as he himself appeared to be better satisfied, so she began to come to herself again. They fell all laughing at the adventure, whereof the imbecility of Judith Kiffen, to whom the vapours of her first sleep had made a Spirit appear, was only accused; and matters being thus restored, the amorous Duke of Valois, who on the foot of the Queen's bed, where he was almost laid along, found her so much the more charming, as she had reasons that night to spare it, seemed (if it may be so said) to devour her with his looks. Madam who knew it, made it not her business to take him off from that transport. On the contrary she beheld him with some pity, burn himself at a fire which flamed not. But being free from the distractions that he had, and being by nature neither so easy to be mistaken, nor so ready to be undeceived, she persisted in the suspicion that he had wrought in her. So that drolling with the Queen, she took occasion to tell her, that seeing the was timorous, she would lie by her that night. Though the Duke of Valois was quite transported with other thoughts, yet he well understood what that meant, and that he might suffer Madam to do so; and being besides unable to abide longer with the Queen, he withdrew with some of the friends of his pleasures.  
Bonneval, who was one of that number, came to meet him; and what he told him of a second search that he had made of the Duke of Suffolk, and Marquess of Dorset, to as little purpose as the first, did not a little contribute to persuade him that the Duke of Longueville was out in his conjectures; for after all, the Marquis of Dorset was no more to be found than the Duke of Suffolk. He caused himself to be denied at home, that according as things happened, he might have occasion to say that they were both together; and this plot agreed upon betwixt them, might have made the most cunning easily believe, that these two English seeking their adventures at Paris, as all strangers do, had been together in some secret place of divertisement.  
In the mean time, the Queen being a-bed with Madam, notwithstanding the resistance she made; and Judith Kiffen besieged by the Lady D'aumont, who made her pass the night upon Chairs, Suffolk was not a little troubled that he heard no news from them. He judged so much the worse that he knew not what to judge; and to be alone in the secret of the night with Ann of Bolen, without any probability of getting out of the Palace, whereof he knew neither the byways nor issues, was possibly the greatest perplexity that could happen to a man of his humour. He saw nothing on all hands, but grounds of despair. He had heard the Duke of Valois in the Gallery speak to Kiffen in a tone, which gave but too evident signs of what he had in his mind. The attempt that was made to open the door of the entry, which Bolen thought fit to shut, had reached his ears; and if he had no reason to think that it was certainly known where he was, yet he found ground enough to presume that there was something at least doubted. By this means, seeing the faculties of the soul are very quick in the first emotions of the heart, he imagined the evil almost as great, as it he had been discovered; and in that violent state, to which so many offensive imaginations reduced him, he would have made no difficulty to have thrown himself out of the window, had he been sure to have been lost in a bottomless pit, and never found again. In fine, length of time, and the profound silence of the night dissipated these first terrors. He began to hope that the Queen was come off well, because no body came to him; and reasoning discreetly about what he had to do, he well perceived that she left all the care of that to him. But that was a difficulty which he could not tell how to resolve. If it was dangerous to remain with Ann of Bolen, it was far more to attempt an escape. The Palace might be invested by order of his enemies. There was no probability of avoiding the Guards; and if he should wander in the dark, he was almost sure to fall in the way of those whom he feared most. Besides, Ann of Bolen, who jealous of her reputation, pretended that with so much Beauty and Virtue, there was no Crowned head of whom she might not make Conquest, would have him by all means to withdraw: and though Suffolk was very far from thinking his fortune good, that he had the occasion to spend a night with her in her Chamber; yet with his cares and fears, he had the scruples and discontents of that maid to struggle with. It behoved them both however to have patience, notwithstanding of the reasons they had to be impatient; and young Bolen submitting to the necessity wherein Suffolk was, they concluded at length, that he should send a note to one of his servants, on which she should write the direction; and that the English Maid that served her should carry it to his lodgings so soon as it was day. After that, they reasoned no more. Suffolk prayed Bolen to take her rest, as if he had not been in her Chamber; and she fell asleep, or seemed to do so, whilst his thoughts were taken up about his misfortunes: but so soon as day began to appear, she went into the next Chamber to awaken the Maid that served her. The orders than Suffolk gave, were, that one of his servants with some bundles of Stuffs and Ribbon that he had by him, should bring him another suit of , that he might not be in the habit of one going to a Ball, as he was at that time; and that the note which he wrote to the Marquis of Dorset, should be delivered to him. The Chambermaid did her duty, without discovering any thing of the mystery. And he to whom she was directed, taking one of his companions with him, did likewise his. Ann of Bolen having received them both as men, that brought her Stuffs from England, entered into the next Chamber, under pretext that there was more light there to choose them by. Suffolk that lay hid in her Chamber, was immediately travested; and his servants carried away the  that he had put off, leaving part of their Stuffs, in the choosing of which Bolen counterfeited herself still busied; and having met them, he was but a little way got out of that Lady's Chamber, that he might return thither again, like one that came from abroad, when the Marquis of Dorset arrived. So that all things succeeding according to his wishes, and he and his friend having nothing to fear, they made a serious visit to the lovely sick Lady, the better to countenance their coming out of her apartment. In the mean time Judith Kiffen informed them of all that had passed with the Queen, and this was all that the distrust of the Duke of Valois produced; and the so just and exact measures of the Duke or Longueville, being disappointed by the invention of that woman with her foolish vision, a real affair that was able to have ruined the Queen, was made only a piece of raillery. They that saw the Duke of Suffolk, and Marquess of Dorset come out of the apartment of Ann of Bolen, were not at all surprised; for besides that they did it ordinarily, most people believed the last to be in love with her. From thence they went according to their custom, to wait on the King; where they found all the discourse to be concerning the pleasantness of Madam, who had put the Queen in a fright; every one according to his fancy, relating what the Duke of Valois had been pleased to make known; and all that was said on that subject, looking but like a jest, it was almost forgotten by dinnertime. And a new Comedy was the afternoons divertisement of the Court.  
But the Queen and Duke of Suffolk, in the just Resentment that they conceived against the Duke of Valois, taking the more pleasure to insult over the injurious suspicions of that Prince, that all his cunning had succeeded so ill with him, resolved for the future not to lie under such constraints as they had done the time past. They found it even convenient to carry themselves in another manner after so vain an essay. They made no longer any scruple to talk together, whether it was in the King's apartment, or during the play; and to go on as far that way as they could, Suffolk having found an occasion to give the Queen his hand, when she was about to retire, made no scruple to lay hold on it, and to wait upon her to her apartment: that was all the time they had to entertain themselves, the courteous Marquis of Dorset favouring their design. But though their conversation was altogether free, yet it ran not in a very pleasing strain; for the retreat to which the Duke of Suffolk prepared, was a cruel blow which the Queen could not endure. Not but that she was sufficiently persuaded of the necessity that he had to resolve on it; for the power of the Duke of Valois increased daily, as the health and strength of the King diminished; and that Prince entertaining thoughts of her, from which perhaps she was farther removed than any woman living, could not fail to disturb the innocent joy that she took at the sight of Suffolk. But setting aside what she had to manage upon her own account, that unfortunate Lover began to work more compassion in her, than he was wont to do. She could not now reward him, as she desired; and all her gratitude being limited by suffering for him, what he suffered for her, permitted her not to refuse that last occasion of imitating his virtue. So that consenting only to his departure, because it would produce in her the same afflictions, which her marriage had caused in him; as by an excess of love, he spoke no more to her of his troubles, so she was willing to conceal from him the cares to which she prepared herself. She only engaged him to return upon the first orders that he should receive from her, and he made no difficulty to promise it. It was but a false joy drawn from the stock of his grief, that he made appear at parting. His heart sufficiently struggled against it, and under the terrible apprehensions wherewith absence threatened him already, he would have perhaps confessed that he designed to return, if he durst have spoken the truth. But at that time, neither the Queen, nor he, expressed what they thought. They both feared too much to soften one another's heart, in a time when it behoved them to look on one another with some kind of obdurateness; and Suffolk who could endure no longer, was upon the point to give the Queen the good-night, when she being reduced to the same extremity, squeezing his hand between hers, dismissed him.  
The night that followed that sad evening, proved to them one of those tedious nights, which are not known but by the distressed Lovers. Next morning they needed all their invention, to hinder their affliction from being observed. The Queen masked her trouble with the grief she pretended to have for the King's drooping condition; and Suffolk being taken up with the business he had to do the day following at the triumphal Arch, wherewith the Count of Guise he was to defend, acquitted himself so well of his duty, that no body took notice of the disorder of his mind.  
In effect, there was never any thing more gallant or better ordered than the Squadron that he led. The English Champions were all, as himself was, clothed in green Velvet, edged with Cloth of Gold, with crosses wrought with Roses of red Velvet, crowned with Garlands of Lilies in silver embroidery. That device, besides that it had a very opposite relation to the proposition which he had affixed on the Shield Azure, agreed likewise very well with the principal ground of the solemnity. Neither did that of the Duke of Valois, on a blue ground, for all its Magnificence; nor the rest who came in order with most rich and splendid Liveries, so much attract the eyes of the Beholders, as it did; and the King who was better by day than by night, being come to the Carrousel, approved it not only with his looks, but his applause also. The attack of the triumphal Arch began with the sound of Trumpets, and the noise of Cannon fired from the Towers of Bastille. It lasted almost two hours, each Party, and every Champion omitting nothing of the finest and most regular practices of War; and as the Assailants made inconceivable efforts, so the Defendants maintained it with so much vigour, that the Queen who was always in fear for Suffolk, representing to the King, that Courage incited by emulation, might sometimes be exasperated in a matter of pleasure and recreation, he sent the Judges of the Field to put an end to the Combat, by declaring that the Glory was equal on both sides. The health of the Prince which was thought somewhat restored, invited all the Gallants to begin some new feats afresh. But seeing the Queen, although she strove against her humour, seemed not at all taken with such kind of Divertisements, he was glad, being desirous to oblige her more and more, by resigning himself wholly to her pleasure, to delay the proposed solemnities of rejoicing until the month of January.  
This offered a reason to the Duke of Suffolk, to speak to him of his departure; and though that good King, who loved to see him, made some difficulty to let him go; yet the matter went off exceeding well under the common pretext, that every one took to withdraw from Court, in a time when there was nothing to be done there. He pretended some affairs that called him back into England. He promised to be back before the Carnaval, and two days after that his equipage was gone, having taken his leave of the King, and Duke of Valois, to whom he thought it not convenient to express himself any more, and having no occasion to take leave more particularly of the Queen, he took horse accompanied with young Grace, Brother to the Marquis of Dorset, and six in train. Not that he desired his company: On the contrary it would have rejoiced him to have been alone; and though he was abundantly satisfied that his fair Queen loved him with all her heart; yet he looked upon himself but as a wretch, who desired to be abandoned of all the world, seeing he was forsaken by himself. He never thought more of seeing, Mary of Lancaster again. He was already plodding into what Country remote from her, he should go end the miserable remainder of his days; and as the vehemency of his affliction prompted him to that design, so the imperious idea of his secret extraction presenting itself to his imagination, to increase his pain, began likewise to tempt him thereto. All the little displeasures which he had effaced at the Court of England, took place again in his memory. He could not excuse himself for having carried the name of Brandon there so long, when he had one so illustrious to bear. The favours of HENRY the Eighth appeared to him but ignominious trifles. In fine, having no mind to return into England, but that he might declare what he was; and like a sick person, who turns and tumbles every way to find a more easy posture, which he meets with nowhere, giving way to (I know not what) piece of vanity, that seemed to mitigate his grief, because it was an effect thereof, he employed, in thoughts as vain as ambitious, that severe reprieve, which he owed only to the Greatness of his misfortune. O! Marry of England, what kind of love is this, that does in such a manner oppress! your Empire over the Duke of Suffolk was never so great, as when he durst think that you had none; and the revolt of that lovely soul gave you greater proofs of its subjection, than all the testimonies of love and respect, which he had given you heretofore. True it is also, that that revolt lasted not long enough to be thought of any consequence. Fortune that preserved to you so worthy a Conquest, was upon the dawning to Crown its merit. But as she never bestows any favours, and chief such as may be called Sovereign and Supreme, without the price of an extreme affliction, which seems to complete all her other crosses; so she resolved to reduce the Duke of Suffolk to the utmost extremity, before she put you in a condition of being his.  
Having departed from Court in a disorder of mind, that cannot be well expressed, he continued by very easy journeys his way to Calais, wherein a design of wand'ring over the world, desiring to retain but two of his servants, he was thinking with himself already of means to give young Grace the slip; when at the Towns-end of Ardres, entering into a little Copse, which leads to Guines, ten men well mounted broke forth upon him and his train. At the first charge they gave, his horse having received a Carbine-shot in the head, after some bounds, fell into a kind of Lake, which the Winter-rains began to make on the side of the highway; and he was so engaged under his horse, that that fall would have determined all his fortune, if three other Gentlemen coming from Guines, and joining young Grace, had not given Bokal his Valet de Chamber time to come to his assistance. Seeing he was not at all hurt, he got quickly out of the water, and mounted another horse; and despair or anger increasing his natural strength, though the match was then petty equal, the engagement lasted not long. Two of the most desperate, who thought to overthrow him, were themselves knocked down by the weight of his blows. Young Grace, and the three unknown Gentlemen, whom fortune had guided into that place, did as much to those that bore head against them; and of the remaining four, who bethought themselves only of flight, one being fallen, about a hundred paces off, the faithful Bokal who suspected that the Duke of Longueville had suborned these Assassins against his Master, thought best to make him Prisoner. That wretch gave them sufficient information of the truth of the matter, that they were some of the Emperor's Reistres, who came from their Garrison of Dunkirk, as far as that Country, to commit Pillage and Robberies. Nevertheless the unjust suspicion of Bokal produced very troublesome consequences for the Duke of Longueville, who was in no way capable of a bad action. It was the cause that he was very rigorously dealt with about the ransom which he owed still; and as he thought to have paid it by the ransom of Peter de Navarre taken Prisoner at the Battle of Ravenna, which LOWIS the Twelfth had given him; so these dispositions altering under the Reign of FRANCIS the First, who received that Spaniard into his service, the King of England pressed the Duke of Longueville the more, that knowing him to be in a necessity of ransoming himself, he would have him punished for that pretended Riot, and for every thing else that he had done against the Duke of Suffolk.  
But though this bad Rancounter had nothing extraordinary in appearance, since it happens very frequently that Robbers set upon Passengers on the Highways, who are succoured by others; yet in this their befell one of the oddest adventures, that perhaps can be imagined: when the Duke of Suffolk having discovered that the chief of the three that had aided him, was the Earl of Kildare, that fierce enemy knowing him likewise, told him, That all his business in France was to sight him once more. Without doubt no accident more surprising could have happened to either of them; and as the one desperately mad with himself, seemed by casting up his eyes to heaven, to ask the stars, what fatality had brought him to save the life of a man, whom he only sought to kill; so the other fixing his on the ground, knew no more than he wherefore it was, that he should be indebted to him. In fine, the Irish Earl complained and huffed, as he was accustomed to do in any other occasion. He demanded instantly satisfaction for the wounds he had received in Richmont Park, and the disgrace he had fallen into after that unlucky duel; and it was to no purpose for Suffolk, who began to listen to him, and excuse himself for all that had passed, to protest that he would never fight against one that had defended his life, for rage's rendered Kildare either deaf or implacable. So that the other, to satisfy him, drawing again the sword which he had just put up, and throwing it into the wood, approached thus disarmed to the point of his. But that was a day that produced strange adventures; for the fury of the Earl of Kildare ceased of a sudden, and that fiery man was so affected with Suffolk's action, that throwing his sword into the same place of the Wood, as he had done, he came running towards him with open arms, crying with tears, That he would never be any more his enemy. After which, there was no kind of friendship which they showed not to one another; and this days adventure having interrupted the design which Suffolk had to wander over the world, he yielded to go to Calais with the Earl of Kildare; saying sometimes within himself, by a tenderness of heart, which makes true Lovers know the force of their love, that he went only to London to endeavour the re-establishment of his defender. And in effect the procedure of that generous enemy was the first thing he told the King his Master; and that Prince who loved rare and singular adventures, the more admired that action of the Irish Earl, that he thought him not capable of such generosity. So that he gave him a very favourable reception; and restoring him again into favour, by that means united these two Rivals into so strict a bond of friendship, that nothing could afterward dissolve it.  
In the mean while, as the return of the Duke of Suffolk was in agitation; and that upon the complaints which the Queen made by her Letters, the King of England intended to stand on his points with the Court of France; hardly had he projected the measures he was to take in that conjuncture, when the Marquis of Dorset wrote an account of the Death of LOWIS the Twelfth. It would be hard to give an exact relation of what the Duke of Suffolk conceived upon this great news. It wrought a new change in him not to be expressed; only after he had done all that could be done for Mary of England, after that he had sacrificed her to herself by an excess of Virtue, by sacrificing himself for her in an excess of Love, nothing else can be said, but that the reward which so high and extraordinary an action deserved, began to shine in his eyes. There was nothing able to moderate his joy, but a false report that was spread abroad of the Queens being with Child. For besides that this would have left him no hopes, it being unlikely that the Mother of a Dolphin of France could leave her Son's Kingdom, or enter into a second marriage with a person, such as he was taken to be; he dreaded likewise that the Duke of Valois, whom she would thereby disappoint of a Crown, might not revolt against her. He likewise feared the Calumnies which the Favourites of that Prince would not fail to publish, after that they had already slandered her; and that fatal conception, at length seemed to rob him of all that he thought was left him by the Death of LOWIS the Twelfth. But it happened to be a mistake. And the Queen having herself declared the contrary, that the Proclamation of the Duke of Valois might not be held in suspense; it was quickly perceived that she was the first who acknowledged him King of France, by the name of FRANCIS the First; and the Marquis de Sanferre, who in the name of that Prince arrived shortly at London, to renew the Treaty of Peace, which the King his Father-in-law had concluded the year before, put an end to the troubles of the Duke of Suffolk. So that his heart being filled with joy, HENRY the Eighth, whose care it was also to render him happy, would no longer delay his bliss. He condescended to all that was proposed to him for the continuation of the Treaty; and because with the interests of the two Crowns, it behoved him likewise to regulate the concerns of the Queen his Sister in Quality of Dowager, he took that pretext to send Suffolk into France with the title of Ambassador Plenipotentiary, which he discharged with so great splendour, that Prince Henry Count of Nassaw, who came to Paris at the same time in name of the Archduke, about the affairs of the Low-Countries, was somewhat troubled to see a subject of England so highly outdo him.  
But as there was nothing in France that could equal the Magnificence of the English, and all the Court of FRANCIS the First, were envious at it, as well as the Flemings; so there was nothing in the same Kingdom at that time comparable to the Beauty of the Queen. The air wherewith she received the Duke of Suffolk at the Palace des Tournelles, made the wits at Court say, That she needed not too much virtue to comfort her for the death of a husband; and it must be acknowledged, that under her mourning Veil and Peak, which by the light of a vast number of Torches, set more advantageously off the delicate whiteness of her skin, nothing was to be seen in her that day, which might occasion melancholy or grief. That raillery was carried as far as possibly it could be, whilst the necessity of the affairs which they had to regulate with the King of France and his Ministers, obliged them often to speak together, and to be by themselves. But whatever hath been said of them, and whatsoever reports have been raised of their mutual complaisances, or the joy that they had to meet again; yet it is still true, that they never gave any ground for Calumny and Reproach. If they were so near to make a slip, as men imagined; yet they were cautious; and in dangerous occasions, when they might have done otherways, they virtuously resisted temptation.  
The new King of France was not of that temper; for that Prince naturally very free with women, would have made no Ceremony to have persuaded the Queen, had she been in the least inclined to hear him. He had many times much ado to leave her, when the affairs of his Kingdom required it; and for all the Grandeur and Magnanimity which hath appeared in the course of his life, yet being at that time too weak for his passion, he appeared sometimes so peevish, and out of humour, that the same detracting tongues which have endeavoured to fully the reputation of Mary of England, have given it out, that his amorous fever made him so lightheaded, as to detest his marriage with the Daughter of LOWIS the Twelfth: and to protest more than once, that he had rather have enjoyed his Widow than his Kingdom. Whether it was an effect of the Queen's sweet disposition; or that she was pleased to revenge herself for the troubles that he caused her, before he was King, she appeared not altogether inexorable. Yet she was still the same at the heart, and never what he took her to be. So that one day, when her beauty so surprised him, that he forgot some of his measures, thinking to take her on the right side, he told her, That since he himself could not expect to be happy, it behoved him at least to endeavour to make her so, that therefore he would marry her to the Duke of Suffolk whensoever she pleased, that he feared no consequences of that marriage; that he would be Guarrantee of it to all men; and that he would take upon him to persuade the King her Brother to consent thereto. To this proposition he added many marks of affection, and dextrously insinuated how much it had cost him before he could bring himself to that resolution; so that the fair Queen perceiving him in appearance exceedingly moved, and suffering him to speak all that he pleased, by gestures and looks affected several times not to be altogether insensible. But having done so, and judging that he thought her sufficiently touched, she risen from the chair, and looking on him with an air, which might at first falsify all the applause that she had given to his discourse; she answered, That he had never well known her, and that he knew her not as yet. That in France she was taken for a strange person: but that the French themselves were a strange-humoured people; and that she well perceived that amongst them a young Queen, who would be thought virtuous and discreet, though she were naturally affable and courteous, must not show herself to be so. That as to the Duke of Suffolk, she saw very well that it was known that she had an esteem for so worthy a Gentleman, and that she was willing he should be so far in her secrets, as to tell him somewhat more particular; that she had sometimes wished he had been born a King. But that that being but a vain wish, Suffolk must be satisfied with her esteem; and for the rest, that there were Soverains that demanded her, and Kings who having demanded her from her Childhood, might still demand her. This brisk answer not being understood, did the more vex the King, that he thought he had found a sure way to render the Queen pliable. Yet for all that he gave not over. He believed her to have been surprised, or that she made it strange to be free with him; and from time to time renewing the discourse of the marriage with the Duke of Suffolk, though it was uneasy to him to speak good of a Rival; yet as at that time he showed himself a most passionate Lover, so he had at least the advantage of a favourable hearing. In the mean while he got no ground upon her; and the affairs of the Queen being now concluded, she made it her business to prepare for her return into England.  
Then was the time that the Love of FRANCIS the First, which before was always but a gentle heat in his heart, became a furious passion. Many hours he restlessly spent, a thousand violent thoughts he hatched; and if he had not had as tractable and pliable a mind, as he had a high and generous Courage, probably he had run upon strange extremities. But at length he took counsel of the wise, in whom he confided; and his love and despair changing into pure Gallantry, all his intentions were to give signal proofs of the command he had over himself. But all the advances that he had already made in that laudable design; and all the pomp and magnificence wherewith he had ordered the lovely Queen (whom he was so loath to quit) to be conducted out of his Territories, were nothing so obliging to her, nor so great for himself, as the Letter, which (after the signing of all the Treaties that had been concluded by the Ministers on either side), he wrote with his own hand to the King of England, to this effect; That there being few Kings, who in personal worth excelled the Duke of Suffolk, he ought to bestow on him so much of the Grandeur of his Kingdom, as might put him in a capacity to marry the Queen his Sister. That if there were nothing on his part, that might hinder such a lovely union, for his own part he freely consented to it; and that having besides proposed to the Archduke the marriage of the Count of Nassaw, with the Princess of Orange, he should much rejoice to hear, that the two Ambassadors, who had procured him the friendship of his illustrious neighbours, had received in recompense, the one the most beautiful Queen in the world, and the other the richest Princess of the Low-Countries.  
Thus did FRANCIS the First Crown his Love by a truly heroical action, whereof another King slighted in his Love, as he was, would hardly have been capable. It was the first action, but not the least laudable of his Reign, though that might afford matter for a continued Elegy. There is nothing so great as for a man to conquer his own passions. There are few that desire, much less achieve it. And Kings especially, when they are amorous and young, are not accustomed to put their virtue to such a trial.  
The Queen found herself infinitely obliged to the sincere procedure, which followed so generous an effort; but durst not profess so much, for fear of exposing herself to new troubles. She thought it enough to correspond with it by all the civilities which might evidence her acknowledgement, without reviving smothered flames; and that Conduct of the most charming Princess of the world, gaining entirely the esteem of a King, who craved no more from her, but friendship, so fully replaced her in the respect of all the Court, notwithstanding of envy and detraction, that there was not so much as one that belonged to it, who seemed not troubled at her approaching departure. The less polished Gallant lamented it; and the others having understood the merit of the Duke of Suffolk, during the time of his Embassy, were almost all of opinion, following the example of the King, that the Queen had reason to love him. All the discourse therefore at Court of their mutual affection, was with respect, and even with some kind of admiration; and in fine, every one conforming their Sentiments to theirs, their true joy became the greater by approbation.  
The lovely Queen was conducted by all the Court as far as Compiegne, from whence the King still transported with Love, resolved in person to convey her to Boulogne, where he had first received her. The Duke of Suffolk, who kept purposely by the Queen's Consort all the way from Paris to Compiegne, where she lived, that he might give the King the greater liberty, did the same from Compiegne, till they arrived at Boulogne; and was always in company with the Dukes of Alencon and Bourbon, from whom he received all sorts of civility.  
The Duke of Longueville frustrated of his idle thoughts, and reflecting on the ransom which he owed in England, used all his endeavours, but in vain, to procure his protection. The Queen had often declared against him, and Suffolk durst promise nothing without her Approbation.  
Though there be great antipathy betwixt the two Nations, yet in all appearance their Adieus were friendly; and that of FRANCIS the First to the Queen, was so tender and passionate, that she could not forbear to condole the affliction that he lamented. That unseasonable and fruitless sensibleness, rendered him somewhat more afflicted than he was. He regretted the loss of her the more, that judging of her heart by some Sentiments, which on that last occasion she scrupled not to discover to him, he found her more and more worthy to be beloved. But at length they must part; and the grief that thereupon he conceived, so deeply affected him, that it would have lasted much longer than it did, if he had not soon after met with great affairs that first suspended, and by degrees removed it at length.  
In the mean time the fair Queen arrived in England after a passage as fortunate, as carried her from thence; and the King her Brother received her at London with a countenance full of the kindness that he had always had for her, resolving immediately to complete Suffolks' bliss; but finding that the decorum of the Widowhood of a Queen of France, would not for some time allow it, that he might of a sudden cut off that, and all other difficulties which might be raised by his subjects; he caused them to be privately married, reserving the publication thereof, until he thought it time to celebrate the Solemnity. They were married by the old Cardinal of York, and few were present; there being none on the part of the Duke of Suffolk, but the Marquis of Dorset, and Earl of Kildare.  
It would be now time to speak of their great and mutual satisfaction, were it not very easy to be conceived, that the possession of a desired happiness is so much the more pleasant, that it hath cost dear in the purchase. Never was Queen so satisfied to strip herself of Royalty, nor man so pleased with a Queen. To conclude, they deserved, as they enjoyed, a Sovereign felicity on earth. They were from their infancy the sole delight of one another. They loved to the utmost extent of love; and their humours and inclinations suited so perfectly in all things, that notwithstanding the difference of their fortunes, their souls had all the Qualities that might contract an indissoluble Union. And therefore have they deserved the glorious name of true Lovers, and in my judgement there are but few that can aspire to the Honour of such a Character.  
FINIS.   

Postscript.  
THE design that I proposed to myself in Writing of the English Princess, and Duke of Suffolk, suffers me not to proceed any farther. Yet if any desire to know the rest of their Lives, I shall endeavour to satisfy them.  
About the time that they were married, HENRY the Eighth giving way to the bad counsels of Bishop Woolsey, the most part of the Grandees of England conspired against that Minister. The Duke of Suffolk was one of the first; and Woolsey declared against him with the greater heat, that looking on him as the most considerable of his Enemies, he found occasion to charge him with the restitution of certain sums of money that had been furnished him out of the Treasury for his Embassy in France. It was a Largess of the Kings: but that Minister, who then had all the power in his hands, alleged it was but lent. Insomuch that the young Queen Dowager having offered for Suffolk a part of her Jewels, whereof Woolsey immediately made use to procure a Cardinalship; their marriage came thereby to be declared in an unseasonable time, which obliged them both to retire into the Country, to the shame of the Sovereign that suffered it without taking notice thereof. There for the space of three years, they led a most happy life; notwithstanding the little rubs which sometimes they met with from Court; and with regret they lest their solitude, when the King of England recalled them to accompany him at that famous Interview which he had with the King of France, betwixt Ardres and Guines in the year One thousand five hundred and twenty. The King of France had a great desire once more to see the lovely Queen, with whom he had been so much in love; and the King of England, who in the inconstancy of mind wherewith he is charged, repent that he had consented to her retirement, omitted not that occasion to put an end to it. Upon this return they began at London to call her the Dutchess-Queen, in opposition to the French, who at Ardres and Guines, called her always the Queen-Dutchess. The King of France, seeing her at that time in a Beauty to which nothing could be added, though she had already had two Children, felt his old flames revive again. The action which one morning he did, when he went almost alone to visit the King of England, and which some Historians have taxed with imprudence, was an effect of his love. His design was not to see the Brother, the Sister was his object; though he had no ground to promise himself success, and though he had not so much as any intelligence about her. But so soon as he was known, the Seigneur de Chalbot, and another that waited on him, advised him to come off as well as he could, which he did; and the matter passed for a frolic of FRANCIS the First, who intended to give the King of England a clean shirt: and the King of England himself was thereby so deceived, that two days after, without any other design, he rendered him the like frolic. If I had continued the History so far, it would have been pleasant to have enlarged upon that adventure, and upon all the Gallantries that then passed between the two Nations, where by prodigious expenses, they displayed all their Glories. The King of France, for love of the fair Queen, made at that time the Duke of Suffolk a Knight of his Order; and that illustrious Husband, was so far from taking that for a subject of jealousy, that being so well persuaded of the virtue of his Wife, he wore always the Chain and Medal; even at that time when being General of the English Army, he took from the French the Towns of Montdidier and de Roy.  
Brandon Duke of Suffolk, as he was one of the greatest Captains of his age, so was he likewise one of the wisest Councillors of his King; and whether in the affairs which that Prince had at the Court of Rome, and with the Emperor CHARLES the Fifth, when he intended his divorce with Catherine of Spain; or otherways, when the business was to ruin Cardinal Woolsey; or in the domestic disorders, which obliged him to put to death Ann of Bolen, his second Wife; in all these he received from him very considerable services: though on that last occasion, when there was a necessity of condemning a beautiful Criminal, for whom he had always entertained a great esteem, the generous Suffolk was very loath to engage. And the truth is, after that time he never enjoyed himself more. Queen Catherine dying a little before that cruel execution, which would have but too much revenged her on her Rival, if it had been performed in her life-time: the Dutchess-Queen died shortly after, to wit, in the twentieth year of her marriage with the Duke of Suffolk. This bereft him of all comfort for the rest of his days; and being unable to abide longer at Court, as well because of that loss, as of the disorders of his King, which increased with age, he chose rather to command the Army against the Rebels in Yorkshire, where he fully crowned his Glory. He had five Children by the Queen, whereof the two Males died both in one day, of the distemper which is called the English Sweating-sickness; and of his three Daughters, who were all married to the greatest Lords of the Kingdom, the eldest named Frances, married to Henry Grace, Son to the Marquis of Dorset, his intimate friend, was the cause of his death. She falling sick in one of her Country-houses, and he loving that dear Daughter the more, because she perfectly resembled his deceased Queen, used so great diligence to come to her, that he thereby died. Thus the Prophecy of Merlin may be seen fulfilled in his person, supposing that he had been the Grandchild of the Duke of Clarence. Since that, how innocent soever that daughter was of his Death, yet the too great zeal that he had for her, was that which destroyed him. At least to judge by the event, the words of that ginger seem pretty just. The only thing that can make me doubt of it, is the little care that I see in him, during his life, to make known his secret Quality of a Prince of York. What tyranny soever may oblige a Prince to conceal himself for a time, yet if he have a great and generous soul, as Suffolk had, it is hard for him to continue always obscure; and truly royal blood soon or late becomes conspicuous in Heroes. Unless it may be said of that the possession of what he loved having fulfilled all his desires, he feared either to disturb his own felicity, by discovering himself, or to wrong his Children, who according to the custom of England, would have certainly been put to death upon the least suspicion of the truth.  
FINIS.   

Some Books Printed and are to be Sold by W. Cademan, at the Popes-head in the New-Exchange.  
PHaramond, or the History of France a famed Romance in 12 Parts; the whole work never before in English, written by the Author of Cassandra and Cleopatra. Fol.  
Parthanissa, that most famed Romance in 6 Parts, written by the Right Honourable the Earl of Orrery, in Fol.  

Books 4 to.  
Protestant Religion is a sure Foundation and Principle of a true Christian: written by Charles Earl of Derby.  
Historical Relations of the first discovery of the Island of Madera.  
A Warning to the Unruly in two Visitation-Sermons. Preached before the Archbishop of York, by Seth bushel, D. D.  
The great Efficacy of the Clergy, a Visitation-Sermon by Tho. Duncomb, D. D.  
Mr. Barn's Sermon Preached before the King.  
Mr. Pigol's Sermon Preached before the Judges at Lancaster.   

Books 8vo.  
Philosophical Essays, or the History of Petrificatio, by Thomas Shirley, Dr. in Physic.  
The History of Scurvey-Grass, being an exact and careful description of the Nature and Medicinal virtues of that Plant, teaching how to prepare out of it plain and approved Remedies for the Scurvy, and most other Diseases, as well Galenical as Chemical, which are to be had of Scurvey-grass-Ale, confirmed by Reason, Experience, and Authority.  
The Spanish History, or a Relation of the Differences that happened in the Court of Spain, between Don John of Austria and Cardinal Nitard, with other Transactions of that Kingdom; together with all the Letters that past between Persons of the highest Quality, relating to those affairs.   

PLAYS.  

Rival, a Comedy.  
Island-Princes, Comedy.  
Flora's Vagaries, Comedy.  
Town-shifts, a Comedy.  
Citizen turned Gentleman, Comedy.  
Morning-Ramble, Comedy.  
Careless Lovers, Comedy.  
Reformation, Comedy.  
Mall or Modish Lovers, Comedy.  
Rehearsal, a Comedy.  
Mock-Tempest, a Comedy.  
Dumb Lady, a Comedy.  
Dutch-Lovers, a Comedy.  
Settle against Dryden.  
Herod and Mariam.  
Love and Revenge.  
Conquest of China.  
Constant Nimph.  
Pastor Fide.  
Tom Essence, a Comedy.  
Wand'ring Lovers.  
Catalins Conspiracy, Tragedy.  
Fatal Jealousy.  
Macbeth.  
English-Princess.  
Marcelia.  
Spanish-Rogue.  
Piso's Conspiracy.  
Alcibiades.  
Siege of Memphis.  
Cambyces.  
Empress of Morocco.