Sonnet To Lord Bothwell - 9 Poem by Mary Stuart

And now at last she starts to comprehend
How poor her judgement was and to discover
She should not undervalue such a lover,
And she would fain deceive my friend
With writings tricked out in a learned tone
That could not be the product of her brain
But borrowed from the works of some great man.
She's sent a fine dispatch though she has none.
Nonetheless, her words painted to deceive,
Her tears, her fiction-laden piteous sighs,
Her lamentations, bawling cries,
Have worked their way so well that you believe
She wrote these letters and you save them carefully;
And thus you love and trust her more than me.