1 May 1536 – Letter XVIII
My Dearest Anne,
I recently discovered that my love for you knows bounds.
Most every mountain is too high and river too deep.
Poetry is dull while French is hard to pronounce.
And I’d rather not slay a fire-breathing beast,
Or display my affection through song and dance.
The very thought of you bores me, to say the least.
For who has time to waste on dreary romance?
“No one” is the answer, neither queens nor their priests.
You had hopes of a knight, a courageous young prince,
Instead you got me, a despot without sympathy.
You thought we’d grow old; an heir was your chance,
But a king cannot rule when he’s already deceased.
Divorce was an option, and exile a choice,
I shrugged them away, no mercy or peace.
The only course of action is quick and pristine,
And you may just amuse me, by way of guillotine.
Sincerely,
Henry
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