Sonnet To Lord Bothwell - 8 Poem by Mary Stuart

While you made love, she lay with cold disdain.
If you were suffering the heat of passion
That comes from loving with too much emotion,
Her hand would make her heart's revulsion plain,
Taking no joy in your love's fervent art.
In her dress, she showed without a doubt,
She never feared bad taste might blot her out
From the affection of your loyal heart.
I saw in her none of the fear of death for you
That such a lord and husband should be due.
In short, though you're her source of all that's fair,
She never prized but valued very small
That finest hour because she failed to share,
Yet now she says she loved it best of all.