To lead out many to the Holy Land ;

Lest rest and lying still might make them look
Too near into my state. Therefore, my Harry,
Be it thy course to busy giddy minds

With foreign quarrels ; that action, hence borne out,
May waste the memory of former days.
More would I, but my lungs are wasted so,
That strength of speech is utterly denied me.
How I came by the crown, O God, forgive!
And grant it may with thee in true peace live!
P. Henry. My gracious Liege,

You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me;
Then plain and right must my possession be;
Which I with more than with a common pain,
'Gainst all the world, will rightfully maintain.

SHAKSPEARE

CHAP. XIII.

HENRY VI, WARWICK, AND CARDINAL BEAUFORT.

K. Hen. How fares my Lord? Speak, Beaufort, to thy Sov'reign.

Car. If thou be'st Death, I'll give thee England's treasure, Enough to purchase such another Island,

So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain.

K. Hen. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life,
Where Death's approach is seen so terrible!

War. Beaufort, it is thy Sov'reign speaks to thee.
Car. Bring me unto my trial when you will.
Died he not in his bed? Where should be die?
Can I make men live whether they will or no?
Oh, torture me no more, I will confess-
Alive again? Then show me where he is:
I'll give a thousand pounds to look upon him-
He 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 th' apothecary
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.

K. Hen. O thou Eternal Mover of the Heav'ns,
Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch;
O, 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 Card'nal, if thou think'st on Heav'n's bliss,
Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope.
He dies, and makes no sign! O God, forgive him!
War. So bad a death argues a monstrous life.
K. Hen. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close,
And let us all to meditation.

SHAKSPEARE.

CHAP. XIV.

WOLSEY AND CROMWELL.

him;

Wol. 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 The third day comes a frost-a killing frost, And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a rip'ning, nips his shoot;' And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, 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 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 aspect of princes, and his ruin, More pangs and fears than war or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, P

e!

Never to hope again.

Why, how now, Cromwell?

Crom. I have no pow'r to speak, Sir.

Wol. What! amaz'd

At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline?-Nay, if you weep,
I'm fall'n indeed.

Crom. How does your Grace?

Wol. Why, well;

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

A peace above all earthly dignities;

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.

O, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden

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 soul I feel,

T'endure more miseries, and greater far,

Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.-
What news abroad?

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 sudden

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

For truth's sake and bis conscience; that his bones,
When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings,
May have a tomb of orphans' 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 hath in secresy 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 lost for ever!

No sun shall ever usher forth my honours,
Or gild again the noble troops that waited

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

To be thy lord and master. Seek the king,
(That sun I pray may never set,) 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 service perish too.
Neglect him not; make use now,
For thine own future safety.
Crom. O my Lord!

Good Cromwell,
and provide

Must I then leave you? Must I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master?
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his Lord.
The King shall have my service; but my pray'rs
For ever, and for ever, shall be yours.

1

Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries, but thou hast forc'd 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 must more be heard, say then I taught thee;
Say, Wolsey, that once rode the waves 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 which ruin'd me :
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then
(Though th' image of his Maker) hope to win by't?

Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that wait 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 prithee lead me in

There take an invent'ry of all I have,
To the last penny, 'tis the King's.
And my integrity to Heav'n, are all

My robe,

I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal
I serv'd my King, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies!

Crom. Good Sir, have patience.

Wol. So I have.

Farewell

'The hopes of court!

My hopes in Heav'n do dwell.

SHAKSPEARE.

CHAP. XV.

LEAR.

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,

Singe my white head. And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o' th' world:

Crack Nature's mould, all germins spill at once,
That make ungrateful man!

Rumble thy bellyfull, 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 ;