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You do look, my son, in a moved sort
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and
groves; And ye, that on the sands with fruitless feet Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him When he comes back; you demi-puppets, that By moonshine do the green-sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pas
time Is to make midnight mushrooms; that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid (Weak masters though you be), I have bedimmed The noontide sun, called forth the mutinous
winds, And ’twixt the green sea and the azured vault Set roaring war; to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak With his own bolt; the strong based promontory Have I made shake; and by the spurs plucked up The pine and cedar; graves, at my command,
Have waked their sleepers; gaped, and let them
forth, By my so potent art; But this rough magic I here abjure; and when I have required Some heavenly music (which even now I do) To work mine end upon their senses, that This airy charm is for-I'll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound I'll drown my books!
The fall of Cardinal Wolsey from the pinnacle of earthly power was the work of his own duplicity, greed and fraud, and all ministers of state may take warning from this great wreck of unholy ambition! King Henry the Eighth sacrificed everything for his physical and religious ambition. Listen and profit by the last words of the old, ruined Cardinal:
"O, Father Abbot,
"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 honors thick upon him;
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
thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty! Still in thy right hand carry gentle place To silence envious tongues. Be just and fear
not! Let all the aims thou aim'st at be thy country's; Thy God's and Truth's; then if thou fallst, 0,
Cromwell. Thou fall'st a blessed martyr; serve the King; And, pray thee, lead me in; There take an enventory of all I have To the last penny; 'tis the King's; my robe And my integrity to heaven, is all I dare now call my own. 0, Cromwell, Crom
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
At the conclusion of this greatest of monologues King James arose at the head of the royal banquet board, and lifting a glass of sparkling champagne, proposed three cheers for Shakspere, which were given with intense feeling, echoed and re-echoed through those royal halls like thunder music from the realms of Jupiter.
The King beckoned William to approach the throne chair, and there, in the presence of the nobility of the realm, placed upon his lofty brow a wreath of oak leaves, with a monogram crown ring to decorate the digit finger of the brilliant Bard.
It was worth the gold and glory of all the ages to have heard the “Divine”. William
scatter his nuggets of eloquence; and until my pilgrimage of a thousand years reincarnates me again into the “Island of Immortality," I shall cherish that banquet night as the greatest milestone in the memory of my ruminating rambles.
Glory, like the sun on rushing river,