When Henry VIII's queen, Anne Boleyn, was crowned in June, 1533, Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, and then about sixteen years old, carried the fourth sword. This young man, who was to be atrociously executed at the age of thirty by the same Henry, lived at Windsor for some time as the companion of the king's bastard son, the Duke of Richmond, and while confined there some years later he wrote a poem which gives perhaps the most beautiful picture connected with Windsor. I will belittle the rest of this little book by here quoting the poem in full: "Prisoned in Windsor he recounteth his pleasure there passed": So cruel prison how could betide, alas, As proud Windsor? Where I, in lust and joy, With a King's son, my childish years did pass, In greater feast than Priam's sons of Troy. Where each sweet place returns a taste full sour, The large green courts, where we were wont to hove, With eyes cast up into the Maiden's tower, And easy sighs, such as folk draw in love. The stately seats, the ladies bright of hue, The dances short, long tales of great delight; With words and looks that tigers could but rue; Where each of us did plead the other's right. The palme-play, where, despoiled for the game, With dazzled eyes oft we by gleams of love Have miss'd the ball, and got sight of our dame, To bait her eyes, which kept the leads above. The gravel'd ground, with sleeves tied on the helm, On foaming horse, with swords and friendly hearts; With chere, as though one should another whelm, Where we have fought, and chased oft with darts. With silver drops the mead yet spread for ruth, In active games of nimbleness and strength, Where we did strain, trained with swarms of youth, Our tender limbs, that yet shot up in length. The secret groves, which oft we made resound Of pleasant plaint, and of our ladies' praise; Recording oft what grace each one had found, What hope of speed, what dread of long delays. The wild forest, the clothed holts with green; With reins availed, and swiftly-breathed horse, With cry of hounds, and merry blasts between, Where we did chase the fearful hart of force. The wide walls eke, that harbour'd us each night: Wherewith, alas! reviveth in my breast The sweet accord: such sleeps as yet delight; The pleasant dreams, the quiet bed of rest; The secret thoughts, imparted with such trust; The wanton talk, the divers change of play; The friendship sworn, each promise kept so just, Wherewith we past the winter night away. And with this thought the blood forsakes the face; The tears berain my cheeks of deadly hue: The which, as soon as sobbing sighs, alas! Up-supped have, thus I my plaint renew: "O place of bliss! renewer of my woes! Give me account, where is my noble fere? Whom in thy walls thou dost each night enclose; To other lief; but unto me most dear." Echo, alas! that doth my sorrow rue, Returns thereto a hollow sound of plaint.