Anne Boleyn Quotes

I never thought it would end like this. I never thought he would leave me without saying goodbye.

I shall be dark and French and fashionable and difficult. And you shall be sweet and open and English and fair. What a pair we shall be! What man can resist us?

For men love what they cannot have, and hate what they cannot control.

Seduce me. Write letters to me. And poems, I love poems. Ravish me with your words. Seduce me.

I was born to be your rival,' she [Anne] said simply. 'And you mine. We're sisters, aren't we?

Before anything else I was a woman who was capable of passion and who had a great need and a great desire for love.

If I must die, then I will die boldly, as I have lived.

Oh yes. Draw your hem back from my mud, little sister.

We're going' Anne said firmly. So soon?' Percy pleaded. 'But stars come out at night.' Then they fade at dawn', Anne replied. 'This star needs to veil herself in darkness.

Le temps viendra, Je Anne Boleyn

When they launch snakes you'll have your namesake.

When it's done, it's done. And no one will know until it's done.

He was so much in love with me that I could have asked him for the moon and stars, and he would have gathered them for me.

Captivating to men, Anne was also sharp, assertive, subtle, calculating, vindictive, a power dresser and a power player, perhaps a figure to be more admired than liked.

Remember me when you do pray that hope doth lead from day to day.

He had taken George, my beloved George, from me. And he had taken my other self: Anne.

But Anne, do you love him?" I asked curiously. The curve of her hood hid all but the corner of her smile. "I am a fool to own it, but I am in a fever for his touch.

Her unusual dark hair and sultry eyes made her stand out--- Anne Boleyn was Tudor England's Angelina Jolie amid a sea of Reese Witherspoons.

If any person should meddle with my cause, I require them to judge the best'.

Some promises are lies we never meant to tell.

Ann Boleyn...a Renaissance Audrey Hepburn in a little black dress.

I had meant my promise to George. I had said that I was, before anything else, a Boleyn and a Howard through and through; but now, sitting in th shadowy room, looking out over the gray slates of the city, and up at the dark clouds leaning on the roof of Westminster Palace, I suddenly realized that George was wrong, and that my family was wrong, and that I had been wrong-- for all my life. I was not a Howard before anything else. Before anything else I was a woman who was capable of passion and who had a great need and a great desire for love, I didn't want the rewards for which Anne had surrendered her youth. I didn' want the arid glamour of George's life, I wanted the heat and the sweat and the passion of a man that I could love and trust. And I wanted to give myself to him: not for advantage, but for desire.

What had happened to our love? Somehow it had faded, or worn out, or simply withered away.

My new world is etched in diamonds and sealed in gold, drowning in pretension.

We want men to admire us for our courage, our characters, and our intellect, not just our beauty.

I felt as if we were fighting something worse than Anne, some demon that possessed her, that possessed all of us Boleyns: ambition - the devil that had brought us to this little room and brought my sister to this insane distress and us to this savage battle.

The Prince shall think you the most beautiful lady he's ever seen." Alex replied wryly, "Let's hope that's not the case, Eliza. History teaches us that things never end well when royalty set their eyes on 'the most beautiful lady' they've ever seen. Have a care; if you perform your tasks too well, I could be haunting the Tower of London without a head, alongside Anne Boleyn.

If you find a way to write with open heart to Diary, a friend with Truth, no detail spared, your tome like Petrarch’s works will contain the scattered fragments of your soul.

She steeled her spine. “Like Boleyn to the chopping block.” Anna smirked. “Queen of England, are we?” Mara shrugged. “Something to aspire to.

grudge who grudge

Only during courtship might a woman briefly gain the upper hand, as both Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour did, but woe betide her if she did not quickly learn to conform once the wedding-ring was on her finger. The

Katherine of Aragon was a staunch but misguided woman of principle; Anne Boleyn an ambitious adventuress with a penchant for vengeance; Jane Seymour a strong-minded matriarch in the making; Anne of Cleves a good-humoured woman who jumped at the chance of independence; Katherine Howard an empty-headed wanton; and Katherine Parr a godly matron who was nevertheless all too human when it came to a handsome rogue.

For poor taste in husbands, her judgment rivaled Anne Boleyn's.

There are women that men marry and there are women that men don't," Anne pronouned. "And you are the sort of mistress a man doesn't bother to marry. Sons or no sons." "Yes," Mary said. "I expect your right. But there clearly is a third sort and that is the woman that men neither marry or take as their mistress. Woman that go home ...alone for Xmas. And thats seems to be you my dear sister. Good day.

Seduce me. Write letters to me. And poems, I love poems. Ravish me with your words. Seduce me.

Love overcame reason...I had rather beg my bread with him than to be the greatest queen christened.

I hate to be the one to break the news, but epic love stories don’t end with one partner decapitating the other.

Anne's smile was as sweet as poison. 'What matter? So long as it is a Boleyn girl?' 'I didn't want you to come back to court to be my rival,' I said sulkily. 'I was born to be your rival,' she said simply. 'And you mine. We're sisters aren't we?

Have you ever wondered, Anne, in your untiring dance of seduction, whether you might not be dancing to Henry's tune instead of your own? I know how clever you are. How enticing. People whisper the word "witch" whenever you smile at him. But which of you is pale and hollow-eyed from too many scheming, sleepless nights? Which of you is growing more feverish day by day? Which of you is truly bewitched, Anne?

Jane would be the next queen and her children, when she had them, would be the next princes or princesses. Or she might wait, as the other queens had waited, every month, desperate to know that she had conceived, knowing each month that it did not happen that Henry's love wore a little thinner, that his patience grew a little shorter. Or Anne's curse of death in childbed, and death to her son, might come true. I did not envy Jane Seymour. I had seen two queens married to King Henry and neither of them had much joy of it.

They were happy times, although we did not know it then. We never know happiness until it is gone.

It was Anne who was before the table like a prisoner before the bar. She did not stand with her head bowed as I always did. Anne stood with her head high, one dark eyebrow slightly raised, and she met my Uncle's glare as if she were his equal.

The fine purple cloaks, the holiday garments, elsewhere signs of gayety of mind, are stained with blood and bordered with black. Throughout a stern discipline, the axe ready for every suspicion of treason; “great men, bishops, a chancellor, princes, the king’s relations, queens, a protector kneeling in the straw, sprinkled the Tower with their blood; one after the other they marched past, stretched out their necks; the Duke of Buckingham, Queen Anne Boleyn, Queen Catherine Howard, the Earl of Surrey, Admiral Seymour, the Duke of Somerset, Lady Jane Grey and her husband, the Duke of Northumberland, the Earl of Essex, all on the throne, or on the steps of the throne, in the highest ranks of honor, beauty, youth, genius; of the bright procession nothing is left but senseless trunks, marred by the tender mercies of the executioner.

The king greeted the document (the Collectanea) not so much as a drowning man greets a straw but as he might a rescue party from outer space.

For I chase but one hind, he says, one strange deer timid and wild, and she leads me off the paths that other men have trod, and by myself into the depths of the wood.

Tyrants aren't born, they evolve, just as saints do, their characters slowly shaped over time, just as ours are.

When they launch snakes, you will have your namesake.

Vanity often roots itself in insecurity

Betrayal of trust is, by far, the very cruelest sin of all.

all historical fiction is really contemporary fiction; you write out of your own time.44

But you will break Anne's heart.' 'Her heart has to break and her spirit has to break if she is to be any use to her family.' My mother said coldly

Ella yace en el suelo junto a mí...pero fuimos como dos mariposas nocturnas atraídas a la llama y quemadas.

Pobre Katherine Howard. Ella yace en el frío suelo junto a mí. Pero fuimos como dos mariposas nocturnas atraídas a la llama y quemadas.

I think you underestimate how closely I studied the life of Anne Boleyn. Don’t be fooled by my Byzantine-loving exterior.

Anne gave a little giggle. 'Oh what a tragedy Queen! You can smile while your heart is breaking because you are a woman, and a courtier and a Howard. That's three reasons for being the most deceitful creature on God's earth.

The Light in the Labyrinth is a beautifully written book, a gem. I savoured every word; words written with so much ‘colour’. Even though I know the story of Queen Anne Boleyn, Dunn’s perspective on her last days is missing in so many other books of the genre. Dunn gives grace to the history and an honest, and very compassionate look at Anne’s last days. I cried in the end, shedding tears for the young Kate, Anne and her little Bess. I have not yet read a Tudor book that has moved me to tears, as this wonderful journey does. Dunn’s dedication and research shines through in this unforgettable book, a book not just for young readers, but also for all.” — Lara Salzano, avid Tudor reader.

Tell Anne..." I broke off. There was too much to send in one message. There were long years of rivalry and then a forced unity and always and ever, underpinning our love for each other, our sense that the other must be bested. How could I send her one word which would acknowledge all of that, and yet tell her that I loved her still, that I was glad I had been her sister, even though I knew she had brought herself to this point and taken George here too? That, though I would never forgive her for what she had done to us all, at the same time, I totally and wholly understood? "Tell her what?" Catherine hovered, waiting to be released. "Tell her that I think of her," I said simply. "All the time. Every day. The same as always.

From the day he first made me his, to the last day I made him mine, yes, let me set it down in numbers. I who can count and reckon, and have the time. Of all the days I was his and did not love him—this; and this; and this many. Of all the days I was his—and he had ceased to love me—this many; and this. In days—it comes to a thousand days—out of the years. Strangely, just a thousand. And of that thousand—one—when we were both in love. Only one, when our loves met and overlapped and were both mine and his. When I no longer hated him, he began to hate me. Except for that one day. One day, out of all the years.30

In the first play, the crisis is Thomas More. In the second it’s Anne Boleyn. In the third book, and the third play, it’s crisis every day, an overlapping series of only just negotiable horrors. It’s climbing and climbing. Then a sudden abrupt fall - within days.

a royal bride could come to enjoy considerable power and influence, as did both Katherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn. Yet such status and power emanated solely from her husband. She enjoyed no freedoms but those he permitted her. Without him, she was nothing. Queens

the ballad written hundreds of years ago in England told of heartbreak experienced then, and now, in Sophie’s own heart. It was universal, being cast away; it surpassed time and space. It was said that Henry VIII composed the song for Anne Boleyn. Another discarded wife.

The whore or the saint: these seemed to be the prototypes set up by the Church's historic misogyny. But was there no alternative model to follow? Yes, for Anne had seen for herself that it was possible to be an independent thinker, set free from the pattern of sinful Eve or patient Griselda. She had been in the company of clever, strong-willed women like the Regent Margaret of Austria and Margaret of Navarre. The influence of evangelism had enabled women of character to take an alternative path, one that offered Anne Boleyn a different future.

But Anne was asking herself why being queen mattered so much, when the chance for true love was hers for the seizing. And always she came back to the argument that the crown was hers for the seizing too. She had never seen marriage alone as an especially fulfilling estate for women. She had always wanted more in life – and more than she had ever dreamed of would soon, God willing, be in her grasp. There was so much that she could accomplish as queen.

He greeted Anne with a roar of joy, swept her up and kissed her. You would think he had never been Sir Loyal Heart to his Queen Katherine. You would think it had been his worst enemy who had died and not a woman who had loved him faithfully for twenty-seven years and died with a blessing for him on her lips.

One little boy, and he a bastard,' Anne said thoughtfully. 'One little girl of six, one elderly Queen and a King in the prime of his life.' She looked up at the two of us, dragging her gaze away from her own pale face in the water. 'What's going to happen?' She asked. 'Something has to happen. What's it going to be?

One cannot successfully face an enemy while one is questioning one’s own worth, and presuming the enemy is worth more.

Jane had gone to pray for the dead queen, Anne would dance on her grave. The

thank him.  We can’t have him forgetting about you.”   “But

But maybe it was Eve, not Adam, who was deceived. And if you think about it, women were greater than men from the first. Adam means earth, but the name Eve stands for life.

Children always grow faster than their parents’ image of them.

She is my death and I am hers

Anne’s personality is said to have stood out in court because she actually possessed one.

Henry's going to dump me, and I didn't even do anything. He's making it all up because he wants to get rid of me and everybody knows and nobody cares.

Song When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget. I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget. Sir Thomas Wyatt has been credited with introducing the Petrarchan sonnet into the English language. Wyatt's father had been one of Henry VII's Privy Councilors and remained a trusted adviser when Henry VIII came to the throne in 1509. Wyatt followed his father to court, but it seems the young poet may have fallen in love with the king’s mistress, Anne Boleyn. Their acquaintance is certain, although whether or not the two actually shared a romantic relationship remains unknown. But in his poetry, Wyatt called his mistress Anna and there do seem to be correspondences. For instance, this poem might well have been written about the King’s claim on Anne Boleyn:

The man behind the counter at the donut store had been somewhat less than courteous ever since I had prematurely tried to hypnotize him during my first month of practice. Now as I re-entered the donut store he fixed me with a chilly glare. I sauntered up to the counter, then I threw upon him my hypnotizingest glare. "You are getting sleep," I told him. "No, you are getting sleepy," he retorted, his hypnotic eyes boring into mine. The son-of-a-bitch had been studying hypnotism too! "You are a young Georage Washington, and you've been chopping down the cherry tree," I asserted, and he became the boy President. "I cannot tell a lie," he piped in a childish voice. But it didn't last, and he shook my control free. "You are Anne Boleyn," he said, and it was true! "Don't cut off my head!" I begged...

The story was certainly current at court, and in 1535 a Member of Parliament, Sir George Throckmorton, accused Henry to his face of 'meddling' with both Anne's mother and sister Mary. 'Never with the mother,' Henry said.

The audience roared and applauded again. A rush of actors exited the stage and filled the space around her. Shakespeare had already slipped away. She could see Daniel on the opposite wing of the stage.He towered over the other actors,regal and impossibly gorgeous. It was her cue to walk onstage. This was the start of the party scene at Lord Wolsey's estate, where the king-Daniel-would perform an elaborate masque before taking Anne Boleyn's hand for the first time. They were supposed to dance and fall heavily in love.It was supposed to be the very beginning of a romance that changed everything. The beginning. But for Daniel,it wasn't the beginning at all. For Lucinda,however, and for the character she was playing-it was love at first sight. Laying eyes on Daniel had felt like the first real thing ever to happen to Lucinda,just as it had felt for Luce at Sword & Cross. Her whole world had suddenly meant something in a way it never had before.

She's ice and ambition and she would see you on the gallows before surrendering her ambition. Anne has dazzled him, and dazzled the court, and dazzled even you.' 'Not me.' George said gently. 'Uncle likes her best,' I said resentfully. 'He likes nobody, but he wonders how far she might go.' 'We all wonder that. And what price she's prepared to pay. Especially if it's me that pays it.' 'It's not an easy dance she's leading.' George admitted. 'I hate her,' I said simple. 'I could happily watch her die for her ambition.

I looked over to Anne. She was untying her mask and watching me with a long calculating look, the Boleyn look, the Howard look that says: what has happened here, and how may I turn it to my advantage? It was as if under her golden mask was another beautiful mask of skin, and only beneath that was the real woman.

Di che natura è il limite fra la verità e la menzogna? È permeabile e sfocato, poiché è disseminato di voci, dicerie, malintesi e storie alterate. La verità può buttare giù i cancelli, può urlare per strada; se però non è piacevole, gradita e facile da accettare, è condannata a piagnucolare davanti alla porta di servizio.

Eyes downcast, she went past me without a glance. Dismissively her gown brushed my knees as if I should have drawn further back, out of her way, as if everyone should always step back to let Anne through. Then she was gone and as I looked up I met the Queen's eye. She looked blankly at me as I might look at a rivalry of birds fluttering in a dovecote. It was not as if it mattered. They would all be eaten in time.

Her head rolled but a little way from her body, and I could see her lips still moving in silent prayer for a few moments while the blood pumped outward from the body and from the head. I was stuck firm in my place by the horror of it, jarred loose only by the clattering of Nan Zouche and Alice as they ran up the stairs with linen. I quickly leaned down and picked up her head, eyes still open and aware as the linen slipped from them, as they looked at me. I willed the bile back down my throat and forced myself to look into those eyes with love for the few moments before awareness dimmed from them. Within seconds, she slipped away. I took the head into the smallest and finest of linens and carefully wrapped it, her blood running thickly between my fingers, under my nails, and staining my forearms as I sought to save her from any indignity.

Is that it?” he demanded, in sudden rage. “Is that all that matters? Not that I am in love and tumbled like a fool into sin. Not that I can never be happy, married to a snake and in love with a heartbreaker, but only, only, that Mistress Anne Boleyn’s reputation must be without blemish.” At once she flew at him, her hands spread like claws, and he caught her wrists before she could rake his face. “Look at me!” she hissed. “Didn’t I give up my only love, didn’t I break my heart? Didn’t you tell me then that it was worth the price?” He held her away but she was unstoppable. “Look at Mary! Didn’t we take her from her husband and me from mine? And now you have to give up someone too. You have to lose the great love of your life, as I have lost mine, as Mary lost hers. Don’t whimper to me about heartbreak, you murdered my love and we buried it together and now it is gone.” George

When I was first at court and he was the young husband of a beautiful wife, he was a golden king. They called him the handsomest prince in Christendom, and that was not flattery. Mary Boleyn was in love with him, Anne was in love with him, I was in love with him. There was not one girl at court, nor one girl in the country, who could resist him. Then he turned against his wife, Queen Katherine, a good woman, and Anne taught him how to be cruel.

Paradoxically, the feminine soul in our culture subsists on dimes, while millions are spent to dramatize her victimized condition. Imagine what would happen if images of the victimized feminine were banned in our culture. We would lose many of our classical dramas Tamberlaine, Othello, St Joan. Opera houses would not resonate with the anguish of La Iraviata, Lucia di Lammermoor, Madam Butterfly, Anne Boleyn. Theaters would not play Tennessee Williams, Eugene O'Neill, Samuel Beckett. Bookshelves would be depleted without Anna Karenina, The Idiot, the poetry of Robert Browning, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton. The list is endless. The cruelty of the victimization is veiled by the beauty of the art form in which the images are enshrined. Without those diaphanous veils, we have something quite different -Dallas, Dynasty, Miami Vice and ubiquitous examples of advertising where the feminine is raped by male and female alike. At the bottom of this barrel is pornography.

He raised an eyebrow. "Where did you get this? Is our Anne Boleyn suddenly from Mars?" He chuckled. "I always thought she hailed from Wiltshire." Luce's mind raced to catch up. She was playing Anne Boleyn? She'd never read this play, but Daniel's costume suggested he was playing the king, Henry VIII. "Mr. Shakespeare-ah,Will-thought it would look good-" "Oh,Will did?" Daniel smirked, bot believing her at all but seeming not to care. It was strange to feel that she could do or say almost anything and Daniel would still find it charming. "You're a little bit mad, aren't you, Lucinda?" "I-well-" He brushed her cheek with the back of his finger. "I adore you." "I adore you,too." The words tumbled from her mouth,feeling so real and so true after the last few stammering lies. It was like letting out a long-held breath. "I've been thinking, thinking a lot,and I wanted to tell you that-that-" "Yes?" "The truth is that what I feel for you is...deeper than adoration." She pressed her hands over his heart. "I trust you. I trust your love. I know how strong it is,and how beautiful." Luce knew that she couldn't come right out and say what she really meant-she was supposed to be a different version of herself,and the other times,when Daniel had figured out who she was, where she'd come from,he'd clammed up immediately and told her to leave. But maybe if she chose her words carefully, Daniel would understand. "It may seem like sometimes I-I forgot what you mean to me and what I mean to you,but deep down...I know.I know because we are meant to be together.I love you, Daniel." Daniel looked shocked. "You-you love me?" "Of course." Luce almost laughed at how obvious it was-but then she remembered: She had no idea which moment from her past she'd walked into.Maybe in this lifetime they'd only exchanged coy glances. Daniel's chest rose and fell violently and his lower lip began to quiver. "I want you to come away with me," he said quickly.There was a desperate edge to his voice. Luce wanted to cry out Yes!, but something held her back.It was so easy to get lost in Daniel when his body was pressed so close to hers and she could feel the heat coming off his skin and the beating of his heart through his shirt.She felt she could tell him anything now-from how glorious it had felt to die in his arms in Versailles to how devastated she was now that she knew the scope of his suffering. But she held back: The girl he thought she was in this lifetime wouldn't talk about those things, wouldn't know them. Neither would Daniel. So when she finally opened her mouth,her voice faltered. Daniel put a finger over her lips. "Wait. Don't protest yet. Let me ask you properly.By and by, my love." He peeked out the cracked wardrobe door, toward the curtain.A cheer came from the stage.The audience roared with laughter and applause. Luce hadn't even realized the play had begun. "That's my entrance.I'll see you soon." He kissed her forehead,then dashed out and onto the stage.

I feel very strongly that history has mostly been written by men, and even when it is not prejudiced against women it is dominated by a male perspective and male morality. Some of my heroines have been considered simply unimportant—like Mary Boleyn or Katherine Howard—and some of them have been stereotyped—like Anne of Cleves and Katherine of Aragon. I don’t start with a determination of putting the record straight, but when I read terribly prejudiced misjudgments of women I cannot help but consider what they would really have been like—and writing them back into the history.

Il re si siede e comincia a parlare, a sproloquiare. In quegli ultimi dieci anni e più Anna lo ha preso per mano e lo ha portato nella foresta. Lì, al margine del bosco, dove la luce del giorno si frantuma e filtra tra il verde, lui ha perso il senno, l'innocenza. Anna si è fatta rincorrere tutto il giorno, finché lui tremava sfinito, eppure non riusciva a fermarsi neanche per riprendere fiato, non poteva tornare indietro, aveva perso la strada. L'ha inseguita fino al tramonto, l'ha cercata alla luce delle torce. Poi lei gli si è scagliata contro, ha spento le torce e l'ha lasciato da solo nel buio.

Era riuscita a tenere con se un pezzo dell'anima di sua madre, che avrebbe per sempre fatto parte di lei, una spina dorsale per mantenerla forte negli anni a venire, un secondo cuore che avrebbe battuto nel suo petto.

Always, I sensed the difference between others and myself in the power of my emotions, and felt ashamed that I was less calm than Mary, and less able than George to view matters with level-headedness. It was so difficult for me. I was too easily carried away and wished to hide this, for expression of feelings always drew frowns or gasps, and was generally viewed as something base and common, as well as inappropriate. I prayed often that God might make me good.

Calm yourself. Calm yourself . . . ” In time I do, and I move forward.

Sympathy toward me would demand self examination and the questioning of their values, with the discomfort that brings. Their hearts were not large enough to withstand that kind of scrutiny.

Ill-fortune carries with it a stench and leaves a wide berth around its victims,

When we hate each other, we hate with strong passion. It comes, I see, and it goes. I see also that, even in the worst of these situations, we have still chosen to be together, and always manage to find a way to bring it about. We have a stronger need to be together, even fighting and hating, than we have to be at peace, apart.

What you hear of me is more a reflection of the speaker than the woman spoken of, especially with regard to my motives. No one can speak for another’s heart. Certainly no one ever spoke with accuracy for mine!

He is my soul mate. There are such things, and he is mine. There are bonds stronger than death or marriage vows, and we are bound in such a way.

How can this be so? How has it come to this, that all the Lords of England have embraced evil so fervently that they would execute one Lady so that her husband might marry another? It might be said that Henry is no ordinary husband. He is the King. The Sun. A God on earth. But I have known him, and the truth of it is Henry is a man, no more no less, placed upon the throne by other men, thro war and bloodshed and the love of power.

Why did Cromwell do it? Did he not twist and overwork the law and man’s reasoning beyond imagining to make my marriage to Henry possible?” “You forget he is a butterfly taken up by which ever wind is the strongest.” “Yes, and there is only one wind in England,” said I bitterly. “Its name is Henry.

Had I no limbs to walk to him, I would crawl.

I had more emotion than I had room for. I had no place to put the pain.