CARDINAL WOLSEY'S SPEECH TO CROMWELL.
Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries: but thou hast forced 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 more must be heard of,-say I taught thee; Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways 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 that ruin'd me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels: how can man then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate 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,-Pr'ythee, lead me in;
There take an inventory 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 mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell, Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.
THE VICISSITUDES OF LIFE.
So farewell to the little good you bear me. 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 him : The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; And,-when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening,-nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured 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 this world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new opened: O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.
DESCRIPTION OF CLEOPATRA SAILING DOWN THE CYDNUS.
The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burn'd on the water: the poop was beaten gold; Purple the sails, and so perfumed that
The winds were love-sick with them: the oars were
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water which they beat to follow faster,
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person, It beggar'd all description; she did lie In her pavilion, (cloth of gold, of tissue,) O'er picturing that Venus, where we see, The fancy outwork nature; on each side her Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, With diverse colour'd fans, whose wind did seem, To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool, And what they undid, did.*
EARLY RISING THE WAY TO EMINENCE.
This morning, like the spirit of a youth That means to be of note, begins betimes.
* Added to the warmth they were intended to diminish.
His nature is too noble for the world:
He would not flatter Neptune for his trident,
Or Jove for his power to thunder. His heart's his mouth;
What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent, And being angry, does forget that ever
He heard the name of death.
SCENE. A Bedchamber; in one part of it a trunk.
Imogen reading in her bed; a Lady attending. Imo. Mine eyes are weak :-
Fold down the leaf where I have left; to bed: Take not away the taper, leave it burning; And if thou canst awake by four o' the clock, I pr'ythee, call me. Sleep hath seized me wholly.
To your protection I commend me, gods! From fairies, and the tempters of the night, Guard me, beseech ye!
[Sleeps. Iachimo, from the trunk.
Iach. The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd sense
Repairs itself by rest: our Tarquin thus
Did softly press the rushes,* ere he waken'd
*It was anciently the custom to strew chambers with rushes.
The chastity he wounded.-Cytherea,
How bravely thou becomest thy bed! fresh lily! And whiter than the sheets! that I might touch! But kiss; one kiss!-rubies unparagon'd, How dearly they do't.-"Tis her breathing that
Perfumes the chamber thus: the flame o' the taper Bows towards her; and would underpeep her lids, To see the enclosed lights; now canopied Under these windows: white and azure, laced With blue of heaven's own tinet.*-But my design To note the chamber:-I will write all down:-
*i.e. The white skin laced with blue veins.
« AnteriorContinuar » |