Elizabeth Edwards Quotes

Resilience is accepting your new reality, even if it's less good than the one you had before. You can fight it, you can do nothing but scream about what you've lost, or you can accept that and try to put together something that's good.

She stood in the storm, and when the wind did not blow her way, she adjusted her sails.

We were lovers, life companions, crusaders, side by side, for a vision of what the country could be,” Elizabeth Edwards wrote of her marriage to U.S. Sen. John Edwards. When she found out he was cheating on her, the crusading became “the glue” that kept them together.

The days of our lives, for all of us, are numbered...We know that. And yes, there are certainly times when we aren't able to muster as much strength and patience as we would like. It's called being human. But I have found that in the simple act of living with hope, and in the daily effort to have a positive impact in the world, the days I do have are made all the more meaningful and precious. And for that I am grateful.

You cannot change the wind, but you can adjust the sails.

The people at the center of these stories of power couples mostly choose to see their own motives as selfless. In Elizabeth Edwards’ autobiography Resilience, she wrote of her marriage to John, U.S. senator from North Carolina, ‘We were lovers, life companions, crusaders, side by side, for a vision of what the country could be.’ When she found out he was cheating on her, the crusading together became ‘the glue’ that kept them together. ‘I grabbed hold of it. I needed to,’ Edwards wrote. ‘Although I no longer knew what I could trust between the two of us, I knew I could trust in our work together.’ She wanted ‘an intact family fighting for causes more important than any one of us.

Leave me if you must, but be faithful to me if you are with me.

She stood in the storm, & when the wind did not blow her away, she adjusted her sails.

... all things are possible if you are willing to put yourself on the line. You cannot stand back and hope for the best. You have to act.

I no longer believe that William Shakespeare the actor from Stratford was the author of the works that have been ascribed to him.

I want to take you for pleasure, and hold you in my arms for desire. I want you to know that it is your kiss that I want, not another heir to the throne. You can know that I love you, quite for yourself, when I come to your bed, and not as the York’s broodmare.” I tilt back my head and look at him under my eyelashes. “You think to bed me for love and not for children? Isn’t that sin?” His arm comes around my waist and his palm cups my breast. “I shall make sure that it feels richly sinful.

If you know someone who has lost a child, and you're afraid to mention them because you think you might make them sad by reminding them that they died--you're not reminding them. They didn't forget they died. What you're reminding them of is that you remembered that they lived, and ...that is a great gift.

Given that life is so short, do I really want to spend one-ninetieth of my remaining days on earth reading Edward Gibbon?

Where are we going?” she asked. “Mr. Durbin’s sheep have begun to lamb, and I wanted to see how the ewes are doing.” He cleared his throat. “I suppose I should have told you about today’s outing earlier.” Anna kept her eyes straight ahead and made a noncommittal sound. He coughed. “I might’ve, had you not left so precipitously yesterday afternoon.” She arched a brow but did not reply. There was a lengthy lull broken only by the dog’s eager yelp as he flushed a rabbit from the hedge along the lane. Then the earl tried again. “I’ve heard some people say my temper is rather . . .” He paused, apparently searching for a word. Anna helped him. “Savage?” He squinted at her. “Ferocious?” He frowned and opened his mouth. She was quicker. “Barbaric?” He cut her off before she could add to her list. “Yes, well, let us simply say that it intimidates some people.” He hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to intimidate you, Mrs. Wren.” “You don’t.

A couple of nights ago I had an erotic dream about Edward Norton.

I cannot marry the facts of William Shakespeare to his verse: Other men had led lives in some sort of keeping with their thought, but this man is in wide contrast.

Madeleine Albright has said that there is 'a special place in hell for women who don't help each other.' What are the implications of this statement? Would it be an argument in favor of the candidacy of Mrs. Clinton? Would this mean that Elizabeth Edwards and Michelle Obama don't deserve the help of fellow females? If the Republicans nominated a woman would Ms. Albright instantly switch parties out of sheer sisterhood? Of course not. (And this wearisome tripe from someone who was once our secretary of state ...)

I wil not heat treason from my own daughter What will you do behead me for treason? We are not an amry at war We are an army at war! This is your brother's rightful throne that we are talking about

He looked up. “Is it time already?” She nodded. He rose and waited as she gathered her things. The dog followed them out the door, but then he bounded down the stairs to the drive. The animal sniffed intently at something on the ground and then rolled, happily rubbing his head and neck in whatever it was. Lord Swartingham sighed. “I’ll have one of the stable boys wash him before he enters the Abbey again.” “Mmm,” Anna murmured thoughtfully. “What do you think of ‘Adonis’?” He gave her a look so full of incredulous horror that she was hard-pressed not to laugh. “No, I suppose not,” she murmured.

This Earle of Oxford, making of his low obeisance to Queen Elizabeth, happened to let a Fart, at which he was so abashed and ashamed that he went to Travell, 7 yeares. On his returne the Queen welcomed him home, and sayd, My Lord, I had forgott the Fart.

I know Jane is dear to you," Bess said. "I also know that she's in danger. But Jane is one person, Edward. There are thousands of lives at stake. There's a kingdom on the edge of a knife. We must tread carefully.

another of their acquaintances finds himself mesmerised by the way that he 'always had something of ... rivetting stupidity to say on any subject'.

The life of Shakespeare is a fine mystery and I tremble every day lest something turn up.

Nothing ever stay the same

Edward shot a glare at Davis that held the promise of dismemberment, mayhem, and the apocalypse.

She stood in the storm, and when the wind did not blow her way…she adjusted her sails.”2 —Elizabeth Edwards, c. 2006

I won’t marry you,” she repeated. “Why not? You were eager enough to fuck me.” Anna winced. “I do wish you would stop using that word.” Edward swung around and assumed a hideously sarcastic expression. “Would you prefer swive? Tup? Dance the buttock jig?

And even after supposedly happy endings...well, we don't know for sure what happens after the final credits. Elizabeth probably dies in childbirth while Darcy sits stoically outside the bedroom door. Nurse Hathaway might get bored of Doug Ross and his cable-knit sweaters and run off to a tropical island. Even Bella might discover that Edward always hogs the remote and has an annoying laugh and decide to call it quits-no hard feelings.

Elizabeth for the whole of Edward's reign, never wore the rich jewels and clothes left her by her father. Instead, she offered a more virtuous example than the writing of Saints Peter and Paul, her maidenly apparel making the ladies of the court ashamed to be dressed and painted like peacocks.

The Tudor rose was invented to symbolize the unity that had supposedly been brought about when Henry VII married Edward IV’s daughter Elizabeth of York in 1486, entwining the two warring branches, the houses of Lancaster and York, together.

And although we can escape something’s presence, there is no way to escape its absence.

And in busy London there now grew up one of the greatest gifts that the English genius was to leave the world. For in the reign of Elizabeth I began the first and greatest flowering of the glorious English theatre.

Ladies and Gentlemen! Silence please!" Every one was startled. They looked round-at each other, at the walls. Who was speaking? The Voice went on- a high clear voice. You are charged with the following indictments: Edward George Armstrong, that you did upon the 14th day of March, 1925, cause the death of Louisa Mary Clees. Emily Caroline Brent, that upon the 5th November, 1931, you were responsible for the death of Beatrice Taylor. William Henry Blore, that you brought about the death of James Stephen Landor on October 10th, 1928. Vera Elizabeth Claythorne, that on the 11th day of August, 1935, you killed Cyril Ogilvie Hamilton. Philip Lombard, that upon a date in February, 1932, you were guilty of the death of twenty-one men, members of an East African tribe. John Gordon Macarthur, that on the 4th of January, 1917, you deliberately sent your wife's lover, Arthur Richmond, to his death. Anthony James Marston, that upon the 14th day of November last, you were guilty of murder of John and Lucy Combes. Thomas Rogers and Ethel Rogers, that on the 6th of May, 1929, you brought about the death of Jennifer Brady. Lawrence John Wargrave, that upon the 10th day of June, 1930, you were guilty of the murder of Edward Seton. Prisoners at the bar, have you anything to say in your defense?

Because obviously she was the most qualified for the position. At long last Edward had arrived at the enlightened state of knowing that a woman could do a job just as well as a man. Yep. That's how it happened. Edward abdicated his throne. Elizabeth would be crowned queen at Westminster Abbey that same week, and we all know she'd be the best ruler of England ever. And now history can more or less pick up along the same path where we left it.

Katherine and the children have made paper boats and are floating them on the moat to see which one stays up the longest, contriving always that Edward’s should be the winner. He is learning from an early age that the world conspires magically to favor him. After all, he will be King one day and that is the way of things for kings.

Suspiro y me muevo a estudiar los carteles de películas: el Sr. Darcy con su mano en la mejilla de Elizabeth hace nada por mí, más que querer escupir. Puede ser que la ame, pero durante toda su vida, Sr. Darcy quiso ser un desgraciado irritable. Edward Cullen, con sus brazos alrededor de Bella protectoramente mientras Jacob mira hacia ellos, me hace querer vomitar. ¿Y ellos llamaron a su bebe Renesme? POR FAVOR. Jack y Rose del Titanic me tienen apretando los puños. Rose debió abandonarlo ese día. Si lo hubiera hecho, podrían haber llegado a la balsa salvavidas. Romeo y Julieta se ven como idiotas para mí ahora. Ellos sabían que no funcionaria. Romeo nunca debería haber vuelto a su balcón. Fue su estúpida culpa. Él lo sabía. Si él simplemente no hubiera intentado, ambos habrían vivido. ¿Y quién bebe estúpido veneno para resolver sus problemas? Lamentable. Patético. Todos ellos.

I have never thought that the man of Stratford-on-Avon wrote the plays of Shakespeare.

The England of Edward I was more populous than that of Elizabeth I or of George II.

The King is dead. Long live the King! We must all offer allegiance to our new sovereign lord, King Edward the Fifth.

Part of me actually feels sorry for Elizabeth, only a tiny portion though. She’s brought this on herself by being a bitch.

Elizabeth Barrett Barrett, still better known to the world as Elizabeth Barrett Browning, was born on March 6, 1806, the eldest child of Edward and Mary Moulton Barrett

It was a popular theory at the time that death didn't automatically end a marriage because the spouses would eventually be reunited in heaven. The most pragmatic reason for the Church's view was that England was a land-based society and property was inherited upon the death of a spouse, so a remarriage threatened the inheritance of any issue from the previous union.

I was dying and he had chosen to spend time with someone so completely unlike me. I saw my death not simply as a transition for my family but as my complete erasure from my family's life.

In the end, there is peace. If we are strong, if we are resilient, if we are stubborn and filled with hope, if we know how to love, there is peace before that, too. And, honestly, that is enough.

The house had a name and a history; the old gentleman taking his tea would have been delighted to tell you these things: how it had been built under Edward the Sixth, had offered a night's hospitality to the great Elizabeth (whose august person had extended itself upon a huge, magnificent and terribly angular bed which still formed the principal honour of the sleeping apartments), had been a good deal bruised and defaced in Cromwell's wars, and then, under the Restoration, repaired and much enlarged; and how, finally, after having been remodeled and disfigured in the eighteenth century, it had passed into the careful keeping of a shrewd American banker, who had bought it originally because (owing to circumstances too complicated to set forth) it was offered at a great bargain: bought it with much grumbling at its ugliness, its antiquity, its incommodity, and who now, at the end of twenty years, had become conscious of a real aesthetic passion for it, so that he know all its points and would tell you just where to stand to see them in combination and just the hour when the shadows of its various protuberances--which fell so softly upon the warm, weary brickwork--were of the right measure.

Edward got up from his desk, limped across to hers, and placed both hands, palms down, upon it. He leaned over until his eyes were only inches from her hazel ones. “I am not ashamed,” he said very slowly. “I did not fall off my horse. I was not thrown from my horse. I wish to end this discussion. Is that amenable to you, Mrs. Wren?” Anna swallowed visibly, drawing his eyes to her throat. “Yes. Yes, that’s quite amenable to me, Lord Swartingham.” “Good.” His gaze rose to her lips, wet where she had licked them in her nervousness. “I thought of you while I was gone. Did you think of me? Did you miss me?” “I—” she started to whisper.

But we cannot, they cannot turn back. This is the life we have now, and the only way to find peace, the only way to be resilient when these landmines explode beneath your foundation, is first to accept that there is a new reality.

One comfort (and almost the only one arising from Edward's visit) was, that she could now often be spared to go up to the thorn-tree, and calm down her anxiety, and bring all discords into peace, under the sweet influences of nature.

Which didn't explain why Brant remained outside with Elizabeth, even when he started to suffer from heatstroke. Or maybe heatstroke was only the excuse he used for what happened next. With one eye pinned on Elizabeth, he stripped off his shirt, something he rarely did, and proceeded to perform feats of strength. He moved large rocks for no good reason, grunting as if he were leg-pressing a good five hundred pounds. He welded hedge clippers like Edward Scissorhands. And hoed like a lumberjack bent on clearing the Sierras. It was heatstroke. It had to be. There was no other way to explain a thirty-eight-year-old man flexing and posing for a woman like some goddamned body builder in a competition. And the worst part about it was she didn't even pay him the slightest bit of attention.

King Charles I of England believed in the compromise worked out under Queen Elizabeth – that the Church of Rome had fallen into evil ways, that the English Church was purified Catholicism, and that it was the Anglican bishops, nowadays, who were the true inheritors of the apostles.

Frank had entertained some idea of studying for a barrister himself: not so much as a means of livelihood as to gain some idea of the code which makes and shows a nation's conscience: but Edward's details of the ways in which the letter so often baffles the spirit, made him recoil.

Right next door to the bear gardens on the south bank of the Thames in the last years of Elizabeth's reign sat the main theatres of the day. Permanent theatres were brand sparking new, the very first not appearing until 1576. Throughout the reigns of Henry VII, Henry VIII, Edward VI and Mary I, theatre had been a mobile activity, and a largely amateur one.

When he died, she took her hopes for a child and wrapped them carefully in a box and buried that box deep, deep in her heart. So deep, she thought never to face that dream again. Except, with one sentence, Edward had exhumed the box and ripped it open. And her hopes, her dreams, her need to bear a child were as fresh now as they had been when she was newly wed.

I should have preferred a rather longer stay here certainly, but there is no prospect of any later conveyance for me, as he does not mean to accompany Edward on his return to Winchester, from a very natural unwillingness to leave Elizabeth at that time. I shall at any rate be glad not to be obliged to be an incumbrance on those who have brought me here, for, as James has no horse, I must feel in their carriage that I am taking his place.

She had always from a child pictured Edward to herself as taking her father's place." (as a clergyman) "When she had thought of him as a man, it was as contemplative, grave, and gentle, as she remembered her father. With all a child's deficiency of reasoning power, she had never considered how impossible it was that a selfish, vain, and impatient boy could become a meek, humble, and pious man, merely by adopting a profession in which such qualities are required. - chapter 4

No, please don’t apologize.” She smiled, warmth spreading through her breast as she gathered her courage. Maybe this was the time. “I wanted the kiss just as much as you. As a matter of—” “I’m engaged.” “What?” Anna recoiled as if he had struck her. “I’m engaged to be married.” Edward grimaced as if in self-disgust or possibly pain. She stood frozen, struggling to comprehend the simple words. A numbness seeped throughout her body, driving out the warmth as if it had never been.

Jagiello, Michael E. [IMD]; Dray, Hunter [IMD]; Eng, Edward [IMD]; Yu, Linda [IMD]; Locarno, Chelsey [IMD]; Raverta, Kristen S. [IMD]; Labaudiniere, Margaux [IMD]; Harris, Abigail O. [IMD]; Kellogg, Kenyon [IMD]; Bragdon, Chris [IMD]; Mason, Sydney C [IMD]; Schetman, Elizabeth [IMD]; Martin, Lauren [IMD]; Ferrara, Mark M. [IMD]; Glennon, Sara [IMD]; Romano, Christian J. [IMD]; Kieran, Michaela E. [IMD]; Holdstock, Evan [IMD]; Barrile, David [IMD]; Mullin, Tucker [IMD]; Nadas, Alex [IMD]; Halvorson, Andrew P. [IMD]; Petit, Michael [IMD]; Hanson, Matt M. [IMD]; Herlacher, Ellen [IMD]; Crimmings, Michael [IMD]

Edward Snowden was born in Elizabeth City, North Carolina, and grew up in the shadow of Fort Meade. A systems engineer by training, he served as an officer of the Central Intelligence Agency and worked as a contractor for the National Security Agency. He has received numerous awards for his public service, including the Right Livelihood Award, the German Whistleblower Prize, the Ridenhour Prize for Truth-Telling, and the Carl von Ossietzky Medal from the International League of Human Rights. Currently, he serves as president of the board of directors of the Freedom of the Press Foundation. You can sign up for email updates here

You have seen in the papers that Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer has had an accident in the arm, which keeps him away from the House of Commons, and even from the Haymarket, where they are acting his play (‘Not so bad as we seem’) with some success. Well, here is a curious thing about it. Mr. Lytton told us some time ago, that, by several clairvoyantes, without knowledge or connection with one another, an impending accident had been announced to him, ‘not fatal, but serious.’ Mr. Lytton said, ‘I have been very uneasy about it, and nervous as every letter arrived, but nearly three months having passed, I began to think they must have made a mistake — only it is curious that they all should all make a mistake of the same kind precisely.

In the course of this year the failure in Miss Barrett’s health had become so great that her doctor advised removal to a warmer climate for the winter. Torquay was the place selected, and thither she went in the autumn, accompanied by her brother Edward, her favourite companion from childhood. Other members of the family, including Mr. Barrett, joined them from time to time. At Torquay she was able to live, but no more, and it was found necessary for her to stay during the summers as well as the winters of the next three years. Letters from this period are scarce, though it is clear from Miss Mitford’s correspondence that a continuous interchange of letters was kept up between the two friends, and her acquaintanceship with Horne was now ripening into a close literary intimacy.

Foolish to write all this! As if any human being could know thoroughly what he was to me. It must seem so extravagant, and perhaps affected, even to you, who are large-hearted and make allowances. After these years! And, after all, I might have just said the other truth, that we are at the end of our purse, and can’t travel any more, not even to Taunton, where poor Henrietta, who is hindered from coming to me by a like pecuniary straitness, begs so hard that we should go. Also, we are bound to London by business engagements; a book in the press (Robert’s two volumes), and proofs coming in at all hours. We have been asked to two or three places at an hour’s distance from London, and can’t stir; to Knebworth, for instance, where Sir Edward Lytton wants us to go. It would be amusing in some ways; but we are tired. Also Robert’s sister is staying with us.

The above letter was written only three days before the tragedy which utterly wrecked Elizabeth Barrett’s life for a time, and cast a deep shadow over it which never wholly passed away — the death of her brother Edward through drowning. On July 11, he and two friends had gone for a sail in a small boat. They did not return when they were expected, and presently a rumour came that a boat, answering in appearance to theirs, had been seen to founder in Babbicombe Bay; but it was not until three days later that final confirmation of the disaster was obtained by the discovery of the bodies. What this blow meant to the bereaved sister cannot be told: the horror with which she refers to it, even at a distance of many years, shows how deeply it struck. It was the loss of the brother whom she loved best of all; and she had the misery of thinking that it was to attend on her that he had come to the place where he met his death.

Lucas de Heere’s painting from the 1570s, now at Sudeley Castle, its subject precisely Henry VIII’s family (see Plate 4). It is a portrait with no sense of chronology. The old king sits in full vigour on his throne, handing over his sword to an Edward who is well into his teens. On the king’s right hand is his elder daughter Mary, with the husband who by the 1570s was something of an embarrassing national memory, Philip II of Spain. While Philip and Mary are depicted with perfect fairness, and in what might be considered the position of honour, they yield in size and in body language to the star of the picture, Queen Elizabeth I, who upstages everyone else. The only figure as big as her is the lady whom she appears to be introducing to the gratified company, the personification of Peace. The message is clear: after all the upsets caused by her jovial but terrifying parent and her unsatisfactory siblings, Elizabeth is complacently pointing (literally) to her own achievement, a nation united in harmony.

No one but she had realized that the ballroom bore a rather startling resemblance to the gardens at Charise Dumont’s country house, and that the arbor at the side, with its trellised entrance, was a virtual replica of the place where she and Ian had first waltzed that long-ago night. Across the room, the vicar was standing with Jake Wiley, Lucinda, and the Duke of Stanhope, and he raised his glass to her. Elizabeth smiled and nodded back. Jake Wiley watched the silent communication and beamed upon his little group of companions. “Exquisite bride, isn’t she?” he pronounced, not for the first time. For the past half-hour, the three men had been merrily congratulating themselves on their individual roles in bringing this marriage about, and the consumption of spirits was beginning to show in Duncan and Jake’s increasingly gregarious behavior. “Absolutely exquisite,” Duncan agreed. “She’ll make Ian an excellent wife,” said the duke. “We’ve done well, gentlemen,” he added, lifting his glass in yet another congratulatory toast to his companions. “To you, Duncan,” he said with a bow, “for making Ian see the light.” “To you, Edward,” said the vicar to the duke, “for forcing society to accept them.” Turning to Jake, he added, “And to you, old friend, for insisting on going to the village for the servingwomen and bringing old Attila and Miss Throckmorton-Jones with you.” That toast belatedly called to mind the silent duenna who was standing stiffly beside them, her face completely devoid of expression. “And to you, Miss Throckmorton-Jones,” said Duncan with a deep, gallant bow, “for taking that laudanum and spilling the truth to me about what Ian did two years ago. ‘Twas that, and that alone, which caused everything else to be put into motion, so to speak. But here,” said Duncan, nonplussed as he waved to a servant bearing a tray of champagne, “you do not have a glass, my dear woman, to share in our toasts.” “I do not take strong spirits,” Lucinda informed Duncan. “Furthermore, my good man,” she added with a superior expression that might have been a smile or a smirk, “I do not take laudanum, either.” And on that staggering announcement, she swept up her unbecoming gray skirts and walked off to dampen the spirits of another group. She left behind her three dumbstruck, staring men who gaped at each other and then suddenly erupted into shouts of laughter.

I have the body but of a weak, feeble woman,” she told her troops as the Spanish Armada sailed for home in 1588, “but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too.” Relishing opposites, the queen was constant only in her patriotism, her insistence on keeping ends within means, and her determination—a requirement for pivoting—never to be pinned down. 38 Her hopes for religion reflected this. Knowing the upheavals her country had undergone—Henry VIII’s expulsion of the pope from English Catholicism, the shift to strict Protestantism in Edward VI’s brief reign, the harsh reversion to Rome under Mary—Elizabeth wanted a single church with multiple ways of worship. There was, she pointed out, “only one Jesus Christ.” Why couldn’t there be different paths to Him? Theological quarrels were “trifles,” or, more tartly, “ropes of sand or sea-slime leading to the Moon.” 39 Until they affected national sovereignty. God’s church, under Elizabeth, would be staunchly English: whether “Catholic” or “Protestant” mattered less than loyalty. This was, in one sense, toleration, for the new queen cared little what her subjects believed. She would watch like a hawk, though, what they did. “Her Majesty seems to me incomparably more feared than her sister,” Feria warned Philip—which was saying something since that lady had been “bloody” Mary. “We have lost a kingdom,

Baron, Baroness Originally, the term baron signified a person who owned land as a direct gift from the monarchy or as a descendant of a baron. Now it is an honorary title. The wife of a baron is a baroness. Duke, Duchess, Duchy, Dukedom Originally, a man could become a duke in one of two ways. He could be recognized for owning a lot of land. Or he could be a victorious military commander. Now a man can become a duke simply by being appointed by a monarch. Queen Elizabeth II appointed her husband Philip the Duke of Edinburgh and her son Charles the Duke of Wales. A duchess is the wife or widow of a duke. The territory ruled by a duke is a duchy or a dukedom. Earl, Earldom Earl is the oldest title in the English nobility. It originally signified a chieftan or leader of a tribe. Each earl is identified with a certain area called an earldom. Today the monarchy sometimes confers an earldom on a retiring prime minister. For example, former Prime Minister Harold Macmillan is the Earl of Stockton. King A king is a ruling monarch. He inherits this position and retains it until he abdicates or dies. Formerly, a king was an absolute ruler. Today the role of King of England is largely symbolic. The wife of a king is a queen. Knight Originally a knight was a man who performed devoted military service. The title is not hereditary. A king or queen may award a citizen with knighthood. The criterion for the award is devoted service to the country. Lady One may use Lady to refer to the wife of a knight, baron, count, or viscount. It may also be used for the daughter of a duke, marquis, or earl. Marquis, also spelled Marquess. A marquis ranks above an earl and below a duke. Originally marquis signified military men who stood guard on the border of a territory. Now it is a hereditary title. Lord Lord is a general term denoting nobility. It may be used to address any peer (see below) except a duke. The House of Lords is the upper house of the British Parliament. It is a nonelective body with limited powers. The presiding officer for the House of Lords is the Lord Chancellor or Lord High Chancellor. Sometimes a mayor is called lord, such as the Lord Mayor of London. The term lord may also be used informally to show respect. Peer, Peerage A peer is a titled member of the British nobility who may sit in the House of Lords, the upper house of Parliament. Peers are ranked in order of their importance. A duke is most important; the others follow in this order: marquis, earl, viscount, baron. A group of peers is called a peerage. Prince, Princess Princes and princesses are sons and daughters of a reigning king and queen. The first-born son of a royal family is first in line for the throne, the second born son is second in line. A princess may become a queen if there is no prince at the time of abdication or death of a king. The wife of a prince is also called a princess. Queen A queen may be the ruler of a monarchy, the wife—or widow—of a king. Viscount, Viscountess The title Viscount originally meant deputy to a count. It has been used most recently to honor British soldiers in World War II. Field Marshall Bernard Montgomery was named a viscount. The title may also be hereditary. The wife of a viscount is a viscountess. (In pronunciation the initial s is silent.) House of Windsor The British royal family has been called the House of Windsor since 1917. Before then, the royal family name was Wettin, a German name derived from Queen Victoria’s husband. In 1917, England was at war with Germany. King George V announced that the royal family name would become the House of Windsor, a name derived from Windsor Castle, a royal residence. The House of Windsor has included Kings George V, Edward VII, George VI, and Queen Elizabeth II.

A 1970 survey of dreams about Queen Elizabeth II found that people continued to dream about Queen Victoria seventy years after her death, so deeply was her narrative encrypted in the subconscious of the British people. (Brian Masters, Dreams About the Queen, Blond and Briggs, 1972, pp. 83–84.)

Edward turned his attention to her. He wished he hadn't. She pulled her skirts up to her knees, put one foot in the stirrup and hoisted her leg over the saddle. He saw a lot of underskirt and a flash of the creamy skin of her thigh. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't banish the sight of the delectable morsel from his mind's eye. Indeed, although she had settled her skirts about her, he still saw more than he had a right to. Sitting astride like that made her skirts ride up, revealing her calves. They were shapely, the curve reminding him of the gentle flare of her hips. He wondered what it felt like to follow the line of that curve with his hands. His tongue. "It's just a leg, Edward. We all have them." "I, uh..." -Elizabeth & Monk

Your assistance please, Warren," Elizabeth said, her hand on the sidesaddle pommel. "There are no platforms suitable for a lady to mount here." Warren handed his horse's reins to Edward. Edward crossed his arms and watched as the skinny lad placed his hands around Elizabeth's waist and hoisted her up. Or tried to. Her feet didn't leave the ground. She didn't appear to weigh much, but the lad hadn't grown into his gangly limbs yet. He was all bone and no muscle. Warren tried again, turning bright red with the effort. He managed to lift her off the ground this time, but only an inch. "God's balls!" he exploded as he let her down again. Elizabeth scowled at him. "Apologies, miss, but you're heavy." Elizabeth sighed. "Is there a particular girl you favor by any chance, Warren?" He appealed to Edward for help in answering the question, but Edward was to intrigued to interrupt. "Er, one of the scullery maids up at the Hall smiles at me sometimes. Betty's her name." "Then whatever you do, don't ever tell Betty she's heavy, even if she weighs as much as this horse." Edward bit back a grin. -Elizabeth, Warrren, & Monk

It was no use. Edward rolled his head back against his shoulders, trying to ease the tension. He would have to make a trip to London soon to spend a night or even two at Aphrodite’s Grotto. Perhaps after that he could be in his secretary’s presence without lustful thoughts taking over his mind.

A moving story of shattered dreams in which Barbara March achieved international stardom adored for her dramatic soprano voice of unique beauty and passion. At the peak of her considerable powers adverse circumstances closed that chapter in her life and living with this regret haunted her deeply and emotionally throughout her life As her thoughts centred on the tragic death of her husband Edward feeling somewhat saddened as she approached her sixtieth birthday. Still glamourous and beautiful she decides to go on a cruise and another phase in her life was beginning and what that might hold for her she could only imagine and that was where she befriends Lord Marcus Logan the laird of Glen Haven Castle on the cruise ship Queen Elizabeth 2nd and in the weeks to come on-board ship the emotional attraction was established and strong. Her life was not over a new chapter had begun, a year later they were married. It soon becomes apparent to Marcus that in the shadows of Barbara's life going back into the past and having to recall the loss of her career had hurt her deeply and emotionally, that chapter was one subject on which she found it painful to cope with and she avoided it whenever she could. Glen Haven will take you on an enchanting journey with dear friends with heart-warming thoughts of all times and a great deal of nostalgia, you will never want to lose the stories spell or bid farewell to its wonderful characters. All that I could say of the story to any purpose I have endeavoured to say it.

Since 1547 our state religion has changed three times, from the English Catholicism of Henry, to the radical Protestantism of Edward, to the radical Catholicism of Mary and now to the Protestantism of Elizabeth. The seeds of confusion among the populace have yielded many strange trees.

A slow smile spread over Cain’s face. “Do you have husband?” he asked. She blinked. “What?” “Are your ears full of salt too? I ask you, Englishwoman, do you have husband?” “I told you before, I am betrothed to Edward Lindsey, son of the earl of Dunmore. I am going to Jamestown to be married.” Cain’s smile became a grin. “Good.” “What are you smirking about?” Elizabeth braced her fists against her hips and glared at him. “You’re infuriating,” she sputtered. “You’re crude and barbaric and—” “And I will be your husband,” he said. For seconds, Elizabeth stared at him, too shocked to speak. “What did you say?” she managed. “I take you from the sea,” Cain said, “and I mean to have you for my wife.

Her dreamlike trance was shattered by a Lenape war cry as Cain swooped down on her, seized her wrists in an iron grip, and pinned her to the ground. “Oh!” she gasped. He crouched over her and stared into her eyes. Cain’s cheekbones bore stripes of blue and red paint, and his features gave no hint of a smile. Excitement tinged with fear bubbled up in Elizabeth’s throat, and she attempted a giggle. “Where did you find the paint?” “Silence woman,” he ordered. “You are my prisoner. I tell you when you can speak.” Elizabeth swallowed and moistened her lips. He’s teasing me, she thought, to get back at me for laughing at him. But an inner voice cautioned, Are you certain? She wiggled in his grasp, and he tightened the pressure on her wrists. “Lie still.” “I would have thought you were too sore to move so fast,” she ventured. His nearness was both frightening and intoxicating. Her mouth felt dry, and her heart was hammering as though she’d been running. She could feel the heat of his body through her clothing. “Let me up before you wrinkle my riding habit.” “If Wishemenetoo had wanted his children to ride on the backs of beasts, he would have made horses that did not come away from the rider,” Cain answered huskily. His eyes narrowed. “And I am certain he did not mean for keequa to make joke at husband’s pain.” “Cain,” she persisted, fighting her own rising desire, “let me go. Someone may see us.” “Robert and your woman go into the forest. This one does not think they will return soon.” A shiver passed through her. Wasn’t this what I had in mind when they wandered off? Didn’t I intend for us to . . . “It’s not safe,” she said. “Edward might—” “He will do nothing. He will lie in his room and drink the fire liquid until his body dies. Can a man who cannot walk alone ride a horse?” “He has spies to watch me. He could—” Cain silenced her with his lips. “I like the taste of you, English equiwa,” he murmured. “I think I keep you.

apologize sincerely and profusely for the way this must look, sir. You have every right to demand that I marry your daughter, but—” Edward was gripping his glass so hard he feared it might shatter in his hand. “Did you fuck her?” The boy winced as if Edward had slapped him. Oh, Edward liked making him squirm. “No, sir. I swear to you on her mother’s grave: I did not touch your daughter. Not even as a physician. It was a verbal consultation, nothing more.

A turnaround occurred when Simmons hired marketing professionals Edward Young Clarke and Elizabeth Tyler of the Southern Publicity Association (providers of public relations to the Anti-Saloon League, among other organizations), who promised they could turn his mediocre local fraternity into a national organization. The duo wrote speeches for Simmons, polishing his presentation and expanding his rhetoric beyond complaints of black people’s racial “heredity handicap.” Under their guidance, Simmons expanded his target list to immigrants, Jews, Catholics, labor agitators, “Bolsheviks” and political radicals of any stripe, along with the cultural aspects of the Jazz Age.

She began tying a garter. “Peter was unhappy when I didn’t become pregnant.” He waited. She sighed, not looking at him. “Eventually, he went to another woman.” Damned, stupid bastard. Edward flung back the bedcovers and paced to the window. “Were you in love with him?” The question was bitter on his tongue, but he was compelled to ask it. “In the beginning, when we were first married.” She still smoothed the tattered silk over her calves. “Not at the end.” “I see.” He paid for another man’s sins. No, I don’t think you can.” She picked up the remaining garter and stared at it in her hands. “When a man betrays a woman in such a way, it breaks something in her that I’m not sure can ever be repaired.

In February 1544, a new Act of Succession modified the one of 1536 that had settled the Crown on the children of Henry VIII and Jane Seymour. Edward was still first in line to the throne, of course, followed by any children the King might have with Katharine Parr. A significant change in the Act was that Mary was back in the picture, as was Elizabeth – though both were still considered illegitimate.

As a precursor to this, he oversaw the 1536 Act of Succession, which excluded both Mary and Elizabeth from the royal succession in favor of any children he and Jane had, and by spring of 1537 Jane was pregnant. To Henry’s delight, she gave birth to a son named Edward on October 12, but joy at the royal birth was followed by sorrow as Jane caught a postnatal infection and died on the night of October 24.

Mr. Williams observes, that the attempts for a reformation in England, by the power of the magistrate, filled their country with blood and confusion for a hundred years. For, says he, “Henry the Seventh leaves England under the slavish bondage of the Pope’s yoke. Henry the Eighth reforms all England to a new fashion, half Papist, half Protestant. King Edward the Sixth turns about the wheels of state, and works the whole land to absolute Protestantism. Queen Mary, succeeding to the helm, steers a direct contrary course, breaks in pieces all that Edward wrought, and brings forth an old edition of England’s reformation, all Popish. Mary not living out half her days, (as the prophet speaks of bloody persons), Elizabeth (like Joseph) is advanced from the prison to the palace, and from the irons to the crown; she plucks up all her sister Mary’s plants, and sounds a trumpet, all Protestant. What sober man is not amazed at these revolutions!” [Bloody tenet, p. 197.]

Edward is very angry with the porter. It is to this that the nationalisation of the railways has brought us. Laura sat on the pile of suitcases and waited. She agreed with Edward about the incompetence of British Railways. It wasn’t worth arguing about. It seemed that it was a general rule of life that things deteriorated after a war.

Mrs Martell was thinking about herself, and also about her cousin Laura’s husband Edward West. It was rather wonderful about Edward, but how would it ever end? Laura, of course, must never guess, never be told. But was there really so much to tell? Cathie Martell could wish that there were more, but, so far, Edward had insisted upon being faithful to his wife.

He isn’t really unkind,’ Laura thought, and he has a great deal to put up with; and then she thought how nice it would have been if Edward had said he was sorry for having made her cry, and for having seemed so unkind. But Edward never did say he was sorry; why should he, when he was never in the wrong?

Hast made the acquaintance of thy friend Edward the Second’s ghost yet, pussycat? They tell me he still screams.

Collins, Elizabeth Gaskell, Edith Wharton, and Amelia B. Edwards (yes, the Egyptologist who gave her first name to Amelia Peabody) all contributed to the craze. Henry James’ magnificent The Turn of the Screw is one of the best:

It was simply the last thing. One day, I did not want to try anymore. The harsh words that had hurt me once did not hurt. I simply wanted to be away from all of the things I had tried to accept.

Whereas Julian’s program failed and paganism came to nothing, Christian charity grew—expanding from local parishes to monasteries. By the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, monasteries had developed a harmonious system whereby the wealthy donated money for the care of the poor and the poor in return prayed for the souls of their benefactors. After the English Reformation, King Henry VIII’s suppression of the Catholic monasteries (1536, 1541) dealt a death blow to this equilibrium. His suppression affected not only the Catholic religious who worked and prayed in the monasteries, but also the poor who depended on the monks and nuns, creating a vacuum that needed to be filled. Edward and Elizabeth I filled that vacuum by enacting the Poor Laws, which taxed local parishes to provide for the poor. The Poor Laws were modified in the nineteenth century, and were eventually replaced by the modern welfare system during World War II.

Resilience is accepting your new reality, even if it’s less good than the one you had before. You can fight it, you can do nothing but scream about what you’ve lost, or you can accept that and try to put together something that’s good.” ~ Elizabeth Edwards

I’m sure many have spoken of her.” Lincoln reached for his pen, dipped it in the inkwell. “She is Elizabeth Edwards’ sister.” “For which she has my sympathies.

The term ‘precontract’ can (and could) only ever be used retrospectively. In other words, one could never make something called a ‘precontract’. The sole possibility was to make a contract – the contract in question being a contract of marriage. It only became possible to refer to such a marriage contract as a ‘pre-contract’ in retrospect, when one of the two contracting partners went on to make a second – and bigamous – contract of marriage. Thus, when the documents of 1483 and 1484 refer to Edward IV’s ‘precontract’ with Eleanor Talbot, they definitely mean his contract of marriage (which later became ‘pre-’ due to his bigamy with Elizabeth Woodville).

Thus, when the documents of 1483 and 1484 refer to Edward IV’s ‘precontract’ with Eleanor Talbot, they definitely mean his contract of marriage (which later became ‘pre-’ due to his bigamy with Elizabeth Woodville). As we have seen, the way in which Richard, Duke of Gloucester, handled the astonishing revelation made by Bishop Stillington was absolutely open and above-board. Nothing was done in secret. Since a formal Parliament had not yet been opened, the evidence was presented to ‘the three estates of the realm’, namely those members of the lords spiritual and temporal and the commons who had already gathered in London to form the projected 1483 Parliament at its planned opening. After considering the evidence, the three estates of the realm set aside Edward V as king on the grounds of his illegitimacy, and offered the throne to the next Prince of the Blood in the legal line of succession, namely Richard, Duke of Gloucester. This was how Gloucester became King Richard III. Moreover, the decision of the three estates was subsequently endorsed by a full Parliament. It is extremely difficult to see how this can possibly be described as a ‘usurpation’.

Uncle Jimmy was there too, and he [James Hogue] stuck his head into the burning trash and came back out and his hair was all singed up and smoking and his eyebrows were burned off and all that and—he had some like second-degree burns on his face and that sort of thing and everybody was asking him like, ‘What? What did you do?’ and he’s like, ‘I wanted to see the trash burn.’ 

The relationship between an artist’s biography and his writing is always a difficult subject,” concedes Worden, “but there can be no other important writer since the invention of printing for whom we are unable to demonstrate any relationship at all.” Why didn’t Shakespeare bother to educate his children? His daughters couldn’t write. One signed with what Sir Edward Maunde Thompson, paleographer and director of the British Museum, called a “painfully formed signature, which was probably the most that she was capable of doing with the pen.” The other, he concluded, “could not write at all, for she signed with a mark.” How could a writer—any writer, let alone the greatest writer in the English language—be indifferent to the literacy of his children?

Edward de Vere—far and away the favorite candidate today—the eccentric 17th Earl of Oxford, who traveled through the precise areas of northern Italy with which Shakespeare seems most familiar?

The idea that time has value resurfaces in a polemic penned by the Englishman Thomas Wilson, an Elizabethan diplomat and judge. In his Discourse Upon Usury (1572) Wilson likens the usurer to ‘hel unsaciable, the sea raging, a cur dog, a blind moul, a venomus spider, and a bottomles sacke, whereby you may well be assured that the dyvell dwelleth tabernacled in such a monstre’.46 Usury, says Wilson, is as great an event as murder, adultery and theft; usurers devour whole kingdoms and deserve nothing better than death. Wilson’s ideas were hopelessly old-fashioned by this date – indeed, between the writing and publication of his Discourse, usury in England was legalized (by Queen Elizabeth’s Statute of 1571).

1595 a poet named Thomas Edwards described Shakespeare as “deafly masking thro / Stately troupes rich conceited.

these lives no longer exist and the more we cling to the hope that these old lives might come back, the more we set ourselves up for unending discontent.

My God, my new understanding of God is that he does not promise us protection and intervention. He promises only salvation and enlightenment. This is our world, a gift from God, and we make it what it is. If it is unjust, we have made it so. If there is boundless misery, we have permitted it. If there is suffering, it came from man’s own action or inaction. Abel killed Cain; God did not.

that is in my control is how I live now. I could fill the days with fears—there are plenty of those—or I could fill them with the best joys I can cobble together. My husband wrote, in his book Four Trials—in part, I admit, on my recommendation, “I have learned two great lessons—that there will always be heartache and struggle, and that people of strong will can make a difference. One is a sad lesson, the other is inspiring. I choose to be inspired.” There is enough unhappiness and pain to fill my days, but I choose to be happy.

Ovid wrote Metamorphoses, in which he described the endurance of literature in the epilogue? Now I have done my work. It will endure, I trust, beyond Jove’s anger, fire, and sword, Beyond time’s hunger. The day will come, I know, So let it come, that day which has no power Save over my body, to end my span of life Whatever it may be. Still, part of me, The better part, immortal will be borne Above the stars; … I shall be read, and through all centuries, If prophecies of bards are ever truthful, I shall be living, always.