Elizabeth I

That mottled hands had furrowed English plains

And brows of noble men, and turned their heads,

With marble pallor yet not pall. Now wanes

The ‘lure of lioness, her crown of red

‘Tis dark but hellburn rigid reigns, a torch

Set steady on black water, chaos burns

In corset plate on skirts yet not debauched

Her burnished breast to heart and stomach turns

The withered roots of England, gnarled and strong

Now gripped the handle, drawn from proffered scabbard

A sword of kings and raised it ‘fore her throng

Two-handed yea, and seaborn Spaniards staggered

A crescent queen in mottled hands did raise,

Unpractised, steady blade and part the waves.


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