Changes the mode; for what in me was purchas'd, For thou the garland wear'ft fucceffively. Yet though thou ftand'ft more fure than I could do, And all my friends, which thou must make thy friends, Left reft and lying ftill might make them look With foreign quarrels; that action, hence, borne out, More would I, but my lungs are wafted fo, That strength of speech is utterly deny'd me. You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me; SHAKESPEAR. С НА Р. W CHAP. XVIII. HENRY V. TO HIS SOLDIERS. HAT's he that wishes for more men from England ? If we are mark'd to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour, Nor care I who doth feed upon my coft; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; I am the most offending foul alive. No, 'faith, iny Lord, with not a man from England: This day is call'd the feast of Crispian : And And fay, To-morrow is Saint Crifpian : Then will he ftrip his fleeve, and fhew his fcars. But they'll remember, with advantages, The feats they did that day. Then shall our names, Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter, We few, we happy few, we band of brothers: Shall think themfelves accurs'd they were not here; SHAKESPEAR. CHA P. XIX. HENRY VI. WARWICK, AND CARDINAL K. HENRY. BEAUFORT. WOW fares my Lord?, Speak, Beaufort, to thy Sovereign. CAR. If thou be'ft Death, I'll give thee England's treasure, Enough to purchase such another island, So So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain. K. HENRY. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life, Where death's approach is feen so terrible! WAR. Beaufort, it is thy Sovereign speaks to thee. K. HENRY. O thou eternal Mover of the heav'ns, K. HENRY. Forbear to judge, for we are finners all, Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain clofe, And let us all to méditation. SHAKESPEAR, СНАР. WOL. CHA P. XX. WOLSEY AND CROMWELL. F 1 AREWEL, a long farewel to all my greatness! This is the ftate of man: To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow bloffoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; The third day comes a froft, a killing frost, And when he thinks, good eafy man, full furely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his shoot; And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, Like little wanton boys, that swim on bladders, Thefe many fummers in a fea 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 fervice, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that muft 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. At my misfortunes? Can thy fpirit wonder A great man should decline? Nay, if you weep, CROM. |