The world is like the theatre
Men must play their roles
From start to end
that is so true tonight when I would love to be sitting quietly in my room, developing this wretched poem that has begun to tease at my imagination, I must attend on the Queen with my husband.
How does one write of the cycle of life without seeming morbid?
Thinking in stanzas, making the words dance is all my mind wants to do, and yet I must attend the ball, stand and talk, dance, be shown off in my new jewels he has had made for me. When my mind is thinking in what I think of as lyrical mode so many tell me I remind them of one or another of the heroines of the theater.
How he sighs over my fingers, my devoted husband. I try but somehow they do get stained with ink. I soak them in lemon juice and in milk, but still the stains show faintly. My pretty new gloves he bought and gave me, covering up the marks of my trade. We are no longer young, but tucked in with the gloves was a pretty little sonnet, comparing me to a summer’s day. A sweet gesture from him. I wonder what he would say if he knew I had written it?
William made quite a conquest of that blonde young Duchess for a week or two with that one. I wonder if she would have succumbed to his charms without my words?
Not quite a nom de plume, more of a persona de plume, but I allow myself lots of room for imagination.