"Henry Darnley knew little of women--with Mary, a man who knew her sex might have had some chance of holding his own.

But not with Elizabeth, Varney for I thank God, when he gave her the heart of a woman, gave her the head of a man to control its follies.

No, I know her.

She will accept love-tokens, ay, and requite them with the like--put sugared sonnets in her bosom, ay, and answer them too--push gallantry to the very verge where it becomes exchange of affection; but she writes NIL ULTRA to all which is to follow, and would not barter one iota of her own supreme power for all the alphabet of both Cupid and Hymen." "The better for you, my lord," said Varney--"that is, in the case supposed, if such be her disposition; since you think you cannot aspire to become her husband.

Her favourite you are, and may remain, if the lady at Cumnor place continues in her present obscurity." "Poor Amy!" said Leicester, with a deep sigh; "she desires so earnestly to be acknowledged in presence of God and man!" "Ay, but, my lord," said Varney, "is her desire reasonable?
That is the question.