But the work occupied only her fingers, not her thoughts.
She threw it aside and seized her books. She took Petrarch's
Sonnets; and his love plaints and griefs enchained and stirred her
own love-sick heart.
With streaming tears, and yet smiling and full of sweet melancholy,
Elizabeth read these noble and tender poems. It appeared to her as
if Petrarch had only said what she herself so warmly felt. There
were her thoughts, her griefs. He had said them in his language; she
must now repeat them in her own. She seated herself, and with hands
trembling with enthusiasm, fluttering breath, perfectly excited and
glowing, in glad haste she began a translation of Petrarch's first
sonnet. [Footnote: Elizabeth, who even as a girl of twelve years old
spoke four languages, was very fond of composing verses, and of
translating the poems of foreign authors. But she kept her skill in
this respect very secret, and was always very angry if any one by
chance saw one of her poems. After her death there were found among
her papers many translations, especially of Petrarch's Sonnets,
which were the work of her earliest youth.--Leti, vol. i, p. 150.] A
loud knock interrupted her; and in the hastily opened door now
appeared the lovely form of the queen.
"The queen!" exclaimed Elizabeth with delight. "Have you come to me
at such an early morning hour?"
"And should I wait till evening to wish my Elizabeth happiness on
her festival? Should I first let the sun go down on this day, which
gave to England so noble and so fair a princess?" asked Catharine.
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