Earl Douglas very well knew that. He who observed the king
day and night--he who examined and sounded his every sigh, each of
his softly murmured words, every twitch of his mouth, every wrinkle
of his brow--he well knew what dark and bloody thoughts stirred the
king's soul, and whose blood it was for which he thirsted.
The royal tiger would drink the blood of the Howards; and that they
still lived in health, and abundance, and glory, while he, their
king and master, lonely and sad, was tossing on his couch in pain
and agony--that was the worm which gnawed at the king's heart, which
made his pains yet more painful, his tortures yet keener.
The king was jealous--jealous of the power and greatness of the
Howards. It filled him with gloomy hatred to think that the Duke of
Norfolk, when he rode through the streets of London, was everywhere
received with the acclamations and rejoicing of the people, while
he, the king, was a prisoner in his palace. It was a gnawing pain
for him to know that Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, was praised as
the handsomest and greatest man of England; that he was called the
noblest poet; the greatest scholar; while yet he, the king, had also
composed his poems and written his learned treatises, aye, even a
particular devout book, which he had printed for his people, and
ordered them to read instead of the Bible. [Footnote: Burnet, vol.
i, p. 95.]
It was the Howards who everywhere disputed his fame.
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