The love of Queen Elizabeth I’s life was Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester. After she died in 1603, a message she had entitled “His Last Letter,” written six days before Dudley’s death, was found inside her desk. She had nicknamed him “Eyes,” so he always signed his letters to her ôô, as can be seen below. Note the inconsistencies in capitalization, inflection, and spelling, typical of the era and the evolving language. (Shakespeare’s six surviving signatures are all spelled differently.)
29 August 1588
Thy Glorious Majesty,
Manie, manie thanks for the crack’d bottle of physick, as well as the incredibly small copy of King Edward VI’s Booke of Common Prayer, that Thy Gracious Sovereign hath sent me during my recent illness. Never mind that I spent upwards of £60,000 on Thy three-week visit to my home at Kenilworth that desperate Summer, and it was not even Thy Birthdaye, let alone Thy Name-Daye. But in those days I was still a sanguine Creature, my Fortunes stille in hope of Marital Alliance with Thy Elusive Selfe.
O, Piglet! The love of my Life!
Marry, I know full well that Thy Majesty hast banned the porcine Appellation in court since the day Thou asked the Assemblie for a replacement in The Ladies of the Bedchamber, young Camomile de Bartlett having been taken by surprise with child, and I, thoughtlessly and needlessly, shouted, “By my troth, Piglet, I will undertake the task!” To which there followed much twittering amongst the Ladies and outright guffaws from the gentlemen.
Thou possesses, as Thou knowest, such a Swanlike Appearance now, but since the age of seven, Thou hast ever been my Dear Piglet with chubby cheeks and pretty lips that would look so well with an apple betwixt them. So Thou hast been, through all our yeares, my Swanlike, ripe, Little Piglet.
Forsoothe, I would durst plunge myself down a flighte of stairs and brake my necke rather than offend my saucy Piglet. Ah, there Thou hast me in an untruth. In facte, I would durst plunge mine Wive, Amy, down a flighte of staires and brake her necke rather than offend Thee. Which I, indeed, payed a servant to do. I sware by my Britches, Elizabeth, Thou art a human lie detector.
What a fortunate Manne was I to be granted early in Your Blessed Reign a compartment next to Thy Majesty’s, though the peephole in the wall betwixt them was plugged up. I swear by my britches I did not wish to espy Thee as Thou slept, only as Thou undressed, or, dared I hope, as Thou bathed, whilst I, panting and heaving, suffered alone next door.
I dreamt of a shared compartment illuminated by a Thousand candles— Our Own secret world lit by fire— much like the conflagration incited by Protestants set alight on stakes at Thy sister’s command, only much more Pleasant.
Speaking of stakes, dost Thou remember, when we were but one and twentie, our serendipitous encounter underneath the heads of my Father and brother grinning at each other atop stakes on Traitor’s Gate? That was indeed an Enchanted meeting, my red-headed Piglet, the first of so many, yet none of the intimate nature I so longed for.
Hast notte My Life ever been one of star-cross’d japes, little P.? Thou mayst recall that I once hinted to the Archbishop of Canterbury that I, a devout Protestant of the Puritanical stripe, wast actually a recusant catholic, a remark that landed me in the Tower for several anxious weekes. Then, my suggestion last yeare to James Burbage that young Wllm Shakspear devise a comedie for The Theatre about an assassination attempte againste Thy Sacred Father, Henry VIII. I swiftly changed the target to Richard II after Thou didst so berattle me about the Theme, tho’ no playe of that name hath yet appear’d on a London stage. Also, my bootless response to Pope Gregory XIII that it matter’d not that Easter kept drifting away further and further from the springe Equinox each yeare, yet if he was so hell-bent on changing the Julian calendre, he mighte consider making the firste day of every Monthe My Birthdaye. Finalie, my latest jest to Phillip of Spaine about launching his spectacular Fleete againste your tattered Navie just for funne, tho’ Thou must agree We enjoy’d the turne of Fortune’s Wheele on that Occasion.
And I hath oft so championed sport withall. Dost Thou recall My contest with Norfolk and Burghley over who might wear the plumpest breeches? Dangerous sporte it was, forsoothe, for after I had made use of a bicycle pumpe to fill my breeches, I rose into the air, higher and higher,’til, Britches billowing, I didst sail o’er the length of Hampton Court, and did land in a blackthorne Bush, puncturing the verie breeches that ought to have won me twentie pound. ’Ere the contest could be resumed, Norfolk wast beheaded, which did take most of the funne out of the Enterprise.
The next contest, with old Essex and Darnley, ’twas one which sought to determine who couldst wear the biggest neck ruff. I used my Irish wolfhound’s medical cone— he wast suffering a bout of vehement ringworm— but it didst cut off my air supply, and further, I did also contract a bout of vehement ringworm myself. The cone so covered my entire face withall that it effectively blinded Me as I did walk along the King’s Road, causing Me to tumble into a gorse bush, not only shredding my new teal doublet, but also activating a vehement allergy. That contest stopped short when Darnley wast detonated along with the Old Provost's lodging at Kirk o' Field in Edinburgh.
As I look back on My Life, I sorrow that I hath made a regular pig’s breakfast of it. Hmm. I see that I hath by sheer Chance invented a common British idiom for future generations. Somehow I hath developed porcine ruminations. I knoweth not why.
Verily I hath ever been, at once, the most unlucky and lucky Manne in the kingdome. Unluckie because courtiers and commoners alike despitheth Me, yet lucky for that I am beloved of Elizabeth.
So, My teeny-tiny, tall, Regal, most Swanlike Piglet, I can no longer hold my penne. I shalt have my messenger deliver this laste letter to my once and forever Queene.
Your
ôô
Earl of Leicester,
Lord Steward of the Royal Household,
Privy Councillor, and
Master of the Horse
P.S. Pray, deare Majesty, resist the flatterie of my stepson, Essex. He wants not Thy most gracious Selfe, but Thy kingdome.
P.P.S. I knowe, P., that Thou sucketh candie all daye to sweeten Thy Brethe. It doth notte do so. Listerine would be a better bet.
29 August 1588
Thy Glorious Majesty,
Manie, manie thanks for the crack’d bottle of physick, as well as the incredibly small copy of King Edward VI’s Booke of Common Prayer, that Thy Gracious Sovereign hath sent me during my recent illness. Never mind that I spent upwards of £60,000 on Thy three-week visit to my home at Kenilworth that desperate Summer, and it was not even Thy Birthdaye, let alone Thy Name-Daye. But in those days I was still a sanguine Creature, my Fortunes stille in hope of Marital Alliance with Thy Elusive Selfe.
O, Piglet! The love of my Life!
Marry, I know full well that Thy Majesty hast banned the porcine Appellation in court since the day Thou asked the Assemblie for a replacement in The Ladies of the Bedchamber, young Camomile de Bartlett having been taken by surprise with child, and I, thoughtlessly and needlessly, shouted, “By my troth, Piglet, I will undertake the task!” To which there followed much twittering amongst the Ladies and outright guffaws from the gentlemen.
Thou possesses, as Thou knowest, such a Swanlike Appearance now, but since the age of seven, Thou hast ever been my Dear Piglet with chubby cheeks and pretty lips that would look so well with an apple betwixt them. So Thou hast been, through all our yeares, my Swanlike, ripe, Little Piglet.
Forsoothe, I would durst plunge myself down a flighte of stairs and brake my necke rather than offend my saucy Piglet. Ah, there Thou hast me in an untruth. In facte, I would durst plunge mine Wive, Amy, down a flighte of staires and brake her necke rather than offend Thee. Which I, indeed, payed a servant to do. I sware by my Britches, Elizabeth, Thou art a human lie detector.
What a fortunate Manne was I to be granted early in Your Blessed Reign a compartment next to Thy Majesty’s, though the peephole in the wall betwixt them was plugged up. I swear by my britches I did not wish to espy Thee as Thou slept, only as Thou undressed, or, dared I hope, as Thou bathed, whilst I, panting and heaving, suffered alone next door.
I dreamt of a shared compartment illuminated by a Thousand candles— Our Own secret world lit by fire— much like the conflagration incited by Protestants set alight on stakes at Thy sister’s command, only much more Pleasant.
Speaking of stakes, dost Thou remember, when we were but one and twentie, our serendipitous encounter underneath the heads of my Father and brother grinning at each other atop stakes on Traitor’s Gate? That was indeed an Enchanted meeting, my red-headed Piglet, the first of so many, yet none of the intimate nature I so longed for.
Hast notte My Life ever been one of star-cross’d japes, little P.? Thou mayst recall that I once hinted to the Archbishop of Canterbury that I, a devout Protestant of the Puritanical stripe, wast actually a recusant catholic, a remark that landed me in the Tower for several anxious weekes. Then, my suggestion last yeare to James Burbage that young Wllm Shakspear devise a comedie for The Theatre about an assassination attempte againste Thy Sacred Father, Henry VIII. I swiftly changed the target to Richard II after Thou didst so berattle me about the Theme, tho’ no playe of that name hath yet appear’d on a London stage. Also, my bootless response to Pope Gregory XIII that it matter’d not that Easter kept drifting away further and further from the springe Equinox each yeare, yet if he was so hell-bent on changing the Julian calendre, he mighte consider making the firste day of every Monthe My Birthdaye. Finalie, my latest jest to Phillip of Spaine about launching his spectacular Fleete againste your tattered Navie just for funne, tho’ Thou must agree We enjoy’d the turne of Fortune’s Wheele on that Occasion.
And I hath oft so championed sport withall. Dost Thou recall My contest with Norfolk and Burghley over who might wear the plumpest breeches? Dangerous sporte it was, forsoothe, for after I had made use of a bicycle pumpe to fill my breeches, I rose into the air, higher and higher,’til, Britches billowing, I didst sail o’er the length of Hampton Court, and did land in a blackthorne Bush, puncturing the verie breeches that ought to have won me twentie pound. ’Ere the contest could be resumed, Norfolk wast beheaded, which did take most of the funne out of the Enterprise.
The next contest, with old Essex and Darnley, ’twas one which sought to determine who couldst wear the biggest neck ruff. I used my Irish wolfhound’s medical cone— he wast suffering a bout of vehement ringworm— but it didst cut off my air supply, and further, I did also contract a bout of vehement ringworm myself. The cone so covered my entire face withall that it effectively blinded Me as I did walk along the King’s Road, causing Me to tumble into a gorse bush, not only shredding my new teal doublet, but also activating a vehement allergy. That contest stopped short when Darnley wast detonated along with the Old Provost's lodging at Kirk o' Field in Edinburgh.
As I look back on My Life, I sorrow that I hath made a regular pig’s breakfast of it. Hmm. I see that I hath by sheer Chance invented a common British idiom for future generations. Somehow I hath developed porcine ruminations. I knoweth not why.
Verily I hath ever been, at once, the most unlucky and lucky Manne in the kingdome. Unluckie because courtiers and commoners alike despitheth Me, yet lucky for that I am beloved of Elizabeth.
So, My teeny-tiny, tall, Regal, most Swanlike Piglet, I can no longer hold my penne. I shalt have my messenger deliver this laste letter to my once and forever Queene.
Your
ôô
Earl of Leicester,
Lord Steward of the Royal Household,
Privy Councillor, and
Master of the Horse
P.S. Pray, deare Majesty, resist the flatterie of my stepson, Essex. He wants not Thy most gracious Selfe, but Thy kingdome.
P.P.S. I knowe, P., that Thou sucketh candie all daye to sweeten Thy Brethe. It doth notte do so. Listerine would be a better bet.