Peace to his Soul if God's good pleasure be?!
Lord Cardinal if the thinks on heaven's blijs
Hold
up thy hand make signal of thy hope.
He dies and makes no sign! O God forgive him.

Shakespeare.

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 afpect of princes, and his ruin,
More pangs and fears than war or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

Why, how now, Cromwell?

CROM. I have no power to speak, Sir.
WOL. What, amaz'd

At my misfortunes ? Can thy spirit wonder

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

CROM. How does your Grace?

WOL. Why, well;

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

A peace above all earthly dignities;

A ftill and quiet confcience. The king has cur'd me,
I humbly thank his Grace; and, from these shoulders,
Thefe ruin'd pillars, out of pity taken

A load would fink a navy, too much honour.
O, 'tis a burthen, Cromwell, 'tis a burthen,
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 foul I feel,

T'endure more miferies, and greater far,
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.

What

What news abroad?

CROM.

The heaviest and the worst,

Is your difpleasure with the King.

WOL, God bless him.

CROM. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chofen Lord Chancellor in your place.

WOL. That's fomewhat fudden

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

For truth's fake and his confcience; that his bones,
When he has run his course, and fleeps in bleffings,
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on him!-
What more?

CROM. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome ;
Inftall'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

WOL. That's news indeed.

CROM. Laft, that the Lady Anne,

Whom the King hath in fecrecy 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 loft for ever.

• No fun fhall ever ufher forth my honours,

Or gild again the noble troops that waited

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

To be thy lord and mafter. Seek the King,

(That fun I pray may never fet) 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 fervice perish too.

Good Cromwell,

Neglect

Neglect him not; make ufe now, and provide
For thine own future safety.

CROM. O my Lord,

Muft I then leave you?

Muft I needs forego

So good, fo noble, and so true a master ?
Bear witnefs, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a forrow Cromwell leaves his Lord.
The King fhall have my fervice; but my prayers
For ever, and for ever, fhall be yours.

WOL. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miferies, but thou haft forc'd me,
Out of thy honeft 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 fleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me must more be heard, fay then I taught thee;
Say, Wolfey, that once rode the waves of glory,
And founded all the depths and fhoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A fure and safe one, though thy master mifs'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me:
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that fin fell the angels; how can man then
(Tho' th' image of his Maker) hope to win by't?
Love thyself laft; cherish those hearts that wait thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To filence envious tongues. Be juft, and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim'ft at, be thy Country's,

Thy God's, and Truth's; then if thou fall'ft, O Cromwell, Thou fall'st a bleffed martyr. Serve the King o And pr'ythee lead me in

There take an inventory of all I have,

To the laft penny, 'tis the King's. My robe,

And my integrity to Heav'n, is all