Let us now turn to the ring that Queen Elizabeth gave to the handsome, brave and open-hearted Devereux, Earl of Essex; and which was probably worn by him, when, on his trial, he was desired to hold up his right hand, and he said that he had, before that time, done it often at her majesty’s command for a better purpose. The story of this ring has been discarded by some authors; but we see no reason to doubt it. We take our account from Francis Osborn’s Traditional Memoirs on the Reign of Queen Elizabeth.[269] “Upon this,” says he, “with a great deal of familiarity, she presented a ring to him, which after she had, by oaths, endued with a power of freeing him from any danger or distress, his future miscarriage, her anger or enemies’ malice could cast him into, she gave it him, with a promise that, at the first sight of it, all this and more, if possible, should be granted. After his commitment to the Tower, he sent this jewel to her majesty by the then Countess of Nottingham, whom Sir Robert Cecill kept from delivering it. But the Lady of Nottingham, coming to her death-bed and finding by the daily sorrow the Queen expressed for the loss of Essex, herself a principal agent in his destruction, could not be at rest till she had discovered all and humbly implored mercy from God and forgiveness from her earthly sovereign; who did not only refuse to give it, but having shook her as she lay in bed, sent her, accompanied with most fearful curses, to a higher tribunal.” This reads like truth; and what a picture it presents! Mark the fury of such an overbearing, half-masculine Queen; and, the repentant passiveness of the dying Countess! Dr. Birch, in his Memoirs, says: the Queen observed, “God may forgive you, but I never can.” We are inclined to believe that Elizabeth swore pretty roundly on this occasion, as it is known she could; and that there was a violence on the occasion is even shown by Dr. Birch: he says--“The Countess of Nottingham, affected by the near approach of death, obtained a visit from the Queen, to whom she revealed the secret; that the Queen shook the dying lady in her bed, and thenceforth resigned herself to the deepest melancholy.” The melancholy continued; and this haughty woman was soon smitten; refusing to rest on a bed, from a superstition that it would be her death couch, she became almost a silent lunatic, and crouched upon the floor. There sat she, as did another queen, who cried-- “Here I and sorrow sit, Here is my throne;”