K. Hen. O thou Eternal Mover of the Heav'ns,
Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch;
O, beat away the busy meddling fiend,
That lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul,
And from his bosom purge this black despair.
-Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure be!
Lord Card'nal, if thou think'st on Heav'n's bliss,
Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope.
He dies, and makes no sign! O God, forgive him!
War. So bad a death argues a monstrous life.
K. Hen. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close,
And let us all to meditation.

SHAKSPEARE.

CHAP. XIV.

WOLSEY AND CROMWELL.

Wol. FAREWELL, a long farewell to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon hi.n ; The third day comes a frost--a killing frost, And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a rip'ning, nips his shoot; And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, Like little wanton boys, that swim on bladders, These many summers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye! I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin, More pangs and fears than war or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

P

Never to hope again.

Why, how now, Cromwell?

Crom. I have no pow'r to speak, Sir.
Wol. What! amaz'd

At misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder

my

A great man should decline?-Nay, if you weep,
I'm fall'n indeed.

Crom. How does your Grace?

Wol. Why, well;

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now, and I feel within me

A peace above all earthly dignities;

A still and quiet conscience.

The king has cur'd me,

I humbly thank his grace; and, from these shoulders,
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity taken

A load would sink a navy, too much honour.

O, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden

Too heavy for a man that hopes for Heav'n!

Crom. I'm glad your Grace has made that right use of it. Wol. I hope I have: I'm able now, methinks,

Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,

T'endure more miseries, and greater far,

Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.

What news abroad?

Crom. The heaviest and the worst

Is your displeasure with the King.

Wol.

God bless him!

Crom. The next is, that sir Thomas More is chosen Lord Chancellor in your place.

Wol. That's somewhat sudden

But he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his Highness' favour, and do justice

For truth's sake and his conscience; that his bones,
When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings,
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on him!-
What more?

Crom. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome ;
Install'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

Wol. That's news indeed!

Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne,

Whom the King hath in secresy long married,

This day was view'd in open as his Queen,
Going to chapel; and the voice is now
Only about her coronation.

Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down: O
Cromwell!

The king has gone beyond me; all my glories

In that one woman I have lost for ever!

No sun shall ever usher forth my honours,
Or gild again the noble troops that waited
Upon my smiles.

Go, get thee from me, Cromwell;
I am a poor fall'n man, unworthy now

To be thy lord and niaster. Seek the king,
(That sun I pray may never set,) I've told him
What and how true thou art; he will advance thee;
Some little memory of me will stir him,.

(I know his noble nature,) not to let

Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell,
Neglect him not; make use now, and provide
For thine own future safety.

Crom. O my Lord!

Must I then leave you? Must I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master?
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his Lord.
The King shall have my service; but my pray'rs
For ever, and for ever, shall be yours.

Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries, but thou hast fore'd me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman-
Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell,
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me must more be heard, say then I taught thee;
Say, Wolsey, that once rode the waves of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me:
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then
(Though th' image of his Maker) hope to win by't?

Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that wait thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy Country's,

Thy God's, and Truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell!
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the King——

And prithee lead me in

There take an invent'ry of all I have,

To the last penny, 'tis the King's. My robe,
And my integrity to Heav'n, are all

I dare now call my own.

O Cromwell, Cromwell,

Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal
I serv'd my King, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies!

Crom. Good Sir, have patience.

Wol. So I have.

Farewell

The hopes of court! My hopes in Heav'n do dwell.

CHAP. XV.

SHAKSPEARE.

LEAR.

BLOW winds, and crack your cheeks; rage, blow!

You cataracts, and hurricanoes, spout

Till you have dreuch'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks!
You sulph'rous and thought-executing fires,

Singe my white head. And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o' th' world:

Crack Nature's mould, all germins spill at once,

That make ungrateful man!

Rumble thy bellyfull, spit fire, spout rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters.
I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness;
I never gave you kingdoms, call'd children;
You owe me no subscription. Then let fall
Your horrible pleasure.-Here I stand your brave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man;

you

But yet I call you servile ministers,

That have with two pernicious daughters join'd
Your high engender'd battles 'gainst a head
So old and white as this. Oh! oh! 'tis foul.
Let the great gods,

That keep this dreadful pudder o'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within thee undivulged crimes,

Unwhipp'd of Justice! Hide thee, thou bloody hand
Thou perjure, and thou simular of virtue,
That art incestuous! caitiff, shake to pieces,
That, under cover of convivial seeming,

Hast practis'd on man's life.-Close pent up guilts,
Rive your concealing continents, and ask

Those dreadful summoners grace!—I am a man
More sinn'd against, than sinning.

SHAKSPEARE.

CHAP. XVI.

MACBETH'S SOLILOQUY.

Is this a dagger which I see before me,

The handle tow'rd my hand? come, let me clutch thee.-
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable

As this which I now draw.

Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.

Mine eyes are made the fools o' th' other senses,
Or else worth all the rest-I see thee still;
And on the blade o' th' dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before.-There's no such thing.-
It is the bloody business, which informs

Thus to mine eyes.-Now o'er one half the world
Nature seems dead, and wicked Dreams abuse