O Death! rocke me asleep;

Bringe me to quiet reste;

let pass my weary, guiltles ghost

out of my carefull brest.

Toll on, the passinge-bell;

ring out my dolefull knell;

let thy sounde my death tell.

Death dothe drawe ny;

there is no remedie.

Midnight.

Snoring. Wood cracking in fire. The bustling of hay being shifted in pads.

These were the only sounds that could be heard in the stone prison I am held in. Honestly, I should be at peace like my ladies-in-waiting (if you can call them that) but I am not. Unfortunately I will not be at ease for some hours when I am alas departed and past my pain.

It should not have ended like this. The king, my husband had promised to love me until London had melted into the Thames. But then again, promises are always broken unless promised by God himself.

In my last hours, I can do nothing but pray as I write my soul out onto this paper and think of those who were dragged down with me. I condemn my soul to Christ and pray that the Lord show mercy on those that were already damned to the blade that still awaits me: My brother, George, who was wrongfully accused of incest with me. To think that I, Anne Boleyn, would ever share a bed with my brother is truly pathetic. I'll admit to being closer than most siblings are to one another with him, but never would I allow us to become one in such a way.

Mark Smeaton. He was one of my only allies and a true friend. I was comfortable telling him things that I would not tell anyone else. Still, I would not ever lie with him.

But no one would listen to me. No one undertsood.

My paynes, who can expres?

Alas! they are so stronge

my dolor will not suffer strength

my lyfe for to prolonge.

Toll on, the passinge-bell;

ring out my dolefull knell;

let thy sounde my death tell.

for I must dye;

there is no remedie.

My father and uncle. I no longer felt anything for them.

For seven plus years they had thought that they had successfully blinded me to their true intentions, but I knew better than to allow it. They had assumed that I thought that they were helping me to fulfill my duty to my family and to pursue my happiness when in actuality it was to bring fortune to them. For three years I had been miserable; constantly having to sit back and take it as my husband took mistress after mistress, each one of them splashing water onto the fire of passion Henry and I held for one another.

Until the fire was extinguished.

Alone, in prison stronge,

I wayte my destenye.

Wo worth this cruel hap, that I

should taste this miserie!

Toll on, the passinge-bell;

ring out my dolefull knell;

let thy sounde my death tell.

Death dothe drawe ny;

there is no remedie.

The harlot Jane Seymour. My hate for her grows every time I think of my crown.

Why can the people not see? She is the true usurper! She is the true witch! Behind that docile figure and mouse-like face lies a devil. A demon sent from hell to destroy me. It makes me laugh.

She will not ever be worthy of the title of Queen of England or any other country. When she gives birth to a son (which deep down I know she will) she will pay for her actions. Jane Seymour will wish that she had never double crossed Queen Anne Boleyn.

I would have my revenge.

Farewell! my pleasures past;

welcum! my present payne.

I fele my tormentes so increse

that lyfe cannot remayne.

Toll on, the passinge-bell;

rong is my dolefull knell;

for the sound my dethe doth tell.

Death dothe drawe ny;

there is no remedie.

Alas! I think solely of my daughter.

Elizabeth. My eloquent little girl. A diamond in the rough. A true Tudor rose.

Would she be told of the evil me; a whoring witch who usurped Catherine of Aragon's throne and bewitched King Henry VIII?

Or would she be told of the true Queen Anne Boleyn; the misunderstood Queen of England who was a willful Frenchwoman at heart and loved her daughter with all of her being?

I doubted it.

Elizabeth would be my vengeance. Inside of my baby was the true Queen of England. It did not matter if she was a girl. She would one day rule over Tudor England and perhaps even more!

She would not end up another doomed queen as her mother would.

Elizabeth would lead on to a golden age.

Sound my end dolefully

for now I dye.

The sun begins to rise in the distance. I must make ready to take my leave.

I die in such irony! To think that I used to be on top. I was to be the one on the right side of the sword. But I am prepared, nevertheless. I am prepared to die.

This shall be this last thing that will even be written by my hand. It reads:

O Death! rocke me asleep;

Bringe me to quiet reste;

let pass my weary, guiltles ghost

out of my carefull brest.

Toll on, the passinge-bell;

ring out my dolefull knell;

let thy sounde my death tell.

Death dothe drawe ny;

there is no remedie.

My paynes, who can expres?

Alas! they are so stronge

my dolor will not suffer strength

my lyfe for to prolonge.

Toll on, the passinge-bell;

ring out my dolefull knell;

let thy sounde my death tell.

for I must dye;

there is no remedie.

Alone, in prison stronge,

I wayte my destenye.

Wo worth this cruel hap, that I

should taste this miserie!

Toll on, the passinge-bell;

ring out my dolefull knell;

let thy sounde my death tell.

Death dothe drawe ny;

there is no remedie.

Farewell! my pleasures past;

welcum! my present payne.

I fele my tormentes so increse

that lyfe cannot remayne.

Toll on, the passinge-bell;

rong is my dolefull knell;

for the sound my dethe doth tell.

Death dothe drawe ny;

there is no remedie.

Sound my end dolefully

for now I dye.

Queen Anne Boleyn

Tower Green

May 19, 1536