The historians of Mary Stuart all agree in telling us that she was the most beautiful woman of her age; and it must be admitted that this is fully borne out by all that can be gathered from contemporary writers. It is not only such poetic enthusiasts as Michel de l'Hôpital, Du Bellay, and Ronsard, or such courtly flatterers as Brantôme and Castelnau, who pronounce her beauty to have been matchless--far exceeding "all that is, shall be, or has ever been", but the serious and dignified chroniclers whom Jebb has brought together in his valuable folios--Strada, Blackwood, and even de Thou--also grow eloquent in praise of her charms. But perhaps the most convincing testimony that can be adduced is contained in a poem,[1] composed by an Englishman who was confessedly hostile to Mary, and whose satire was so keenly felt by her that she made it the subject of a formal complaint to Elizabeth. The words attributed to her--for the passage in which they occur is in the form of a confession on her part--are scarcely less forcible than those of her avowed partisans and admirers: But I could boast of beauty with the best, In skilful points of princely attire And of the golden gifts of nature's behest, Who filled my face of favor fresh and fair. My beauty shines like Phoebus in the air, And nature formed my features beside In such proport as advanceth my pride. Thus fame affatethe (_proclaims_) my state to the stars, Enfeoft with the gifts of nature's device That sound the retreat to other princes' ears, Wholly to resign to me the chiefest prize.