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Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not
And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks, That fought with us upon St. Crispian's day.
CHA P. XIX.
Henry VI. Warwick, and Cardinal Beaufort.
K. Henry. How fares my lord? Speak, Beau
fort, to thy sovereign.
Car. If thou be'st Death, I'll give thee England's
Enough to purchase such another island,
K. Henry. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life,
Car. Bring me unto my trial when you will: Dy'd he not in his bed? Where should he die? Can I make men live whether they will or no? Oh, torture me no more! I will confessAlive again? Then show me where he is: I'll give a thousand pound to look upon himHe hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them Comb down his hair look! look! it stands upright, Like lime twigs set to catch my winged soul. Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary Bring the strong poison that I bought of him. K. Henry. O thou eternal Mover of the heav'ns, Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch! Oh, 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 Cardinal, if thou think'st on Heaven's bliss, Hold up thine hand, make signal of thy hope. He dies, and makes no sign! Ŏ God, forgive him.
War. So bad a death argues a monstrous life. K. Henry. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
Close up his
eyes, and draw the curtain close,
And let us all to meditation.
CHAP. X X.
Wolsey and Cromwell.
WOLFAREWEL, a long farewel to all my great
This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth
But far beyond my depth; my high-blown pride
Why, how now, Cromwell?
Crom. I have no power to speak, Sir,
At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder
Crom. How does your grace?
Wol. Why well;
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
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.
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'indure more miseries, and greater far,
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 suddenBut 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 orphan's 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 bath in secrecy long married,
Only about her coronation.
Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down: 0 Cromwell,
The King has gone beyond me: all my glories
To be thy lord and master. Seek the king,
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
Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle Peace,
To silence en ious tongues. Be just, and fear not.
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king-
There take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny, 'tis the king's. My robe,
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Crom. Good Sir, have patience.
Wol. So I have. Farewell
The hopes of court! my hopes in Heaven do dwell.
CHA P. X X I.
BLow winds, and crack your cheeks; rage, blow!
You, cataracts, and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks!
You sulph'rous and thought-executing fires,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o' th' world! Crack Nature's mould, all germins spill at once That make ungrateful man!
Rumble thy belly full, 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 you 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; But yet I call you servile ministers,