June 7, 1554

I am absolutely furious. I thought the four Marys sympathetic to my embarrassment and predicament concerning Francis’s illness at the banquet for the Scottish delegation. But then this morning I heard them all giggling madly as I entered Mary Fleming’s chamber. I begged to be let in on the joke. They were suddenly quiet, and the more I insisted the more they hesitated. But I guessed immediately. “A new rhyme – tell me, Mary.” So with eyes downcast she stepped forward and recited this loathsome ditty:

 

Francis sups with

Kings and Lords

Then brings it up in ways untoward.

He burps

He gags

He turns bright red

Then falls over

As if he’s dead.

 

I absolutely boiled with anger. I fled the room and have not spoken to them all day.