. . . Her face became haggard, and her frame shrank almost to a skeleton. At last her taste for finery disappeared, and she refused to change her dresses for a week together. A strange melancholy settled down on her: "she held in her hand," says one who saw her in her last days, "a golden cup, which she put often to her lips: but in truth her heart seemed too full to need more filling." Gradually her mind gave way. She lost her memory, the violence of her temper became unbearable, her very courage seemed to forsake her. She called for a sword to lie constantly beside her, and thrust it from time to time through the arras, as if she heard murderers stirring there. Food and rest alike became distasteful. She sate day and night propped up with pillows on a stool, her finger to her lip, her eyes fixed on the floor, without a word. If she once broke the silence, it was with a flash of her old queenliness. When Robert Cecil asserted that she "must" go to bed, the word roused her like a trumpet. "Must!" she exclaimed; "is must a word to be addressed to princes? Little man, little man! thy father, if he had been alive, durst not have used that word." Then, as her anger spent itself, she sank into her old dejection. "Thou art so presumptuous," she said, "because thou knowest I shall die." She rallied once more when the ministers beside her bed named Lord Beauchamp, the heir to the Suffolk claim, as a possible successor. "I will have no rogue's son," she cried hoarsely, "in my seat." But she gave no sign, save a motion of the head, at the mention of the King of Scots. She was in fact fast becoming insensible; and early the next morning the life of Elizabeth, a life so great, so strange and lonely in its greatness, passed quietly away.

In her final days, Queen Elizabeth I's once formidable presence diminished into frailty, both physically and mentally. The passage captures the poignant decline of a monarch whose life had been marked by vibrancy and authority. As her health failed, Elizabeth's grip on reality weakened, leaving her haunted by paranoia and melancholy. Her defiance in the face of Robert Cecil's suggestion to "must" retire to bed reveals her undying regal spirit, a flash of her former self. This moment underscores her deeply ingrained sense of sovereignty, as she challenges the audacity of addressing a monarch with such imperative language. Her response is not merely about stubbornness but a final stand for the respect and autonomy she wielded throughout her reign. Yet, even this bold outburst is fleeting, as she slips back into despondency, aware of her impending mortality. Ultimately, the passage poignantly chronicles the end of an era, highlighting the isolation and vulnerability that accompanied Elizabeth's greatness.