Can I make men live whether they will or no?
Oh, torture me no more, I will confefs
Alive again? Then show me where he is:
I'll give a thousand pounds to look upon him
He hath no eyes, the duft hath blinded them;
Comb down his hair-look! look! it ftands upright,
Like lime twigs fet to catch my winged foul.
Give me fome drink, and bid th' apothecary
Bring the ftrong poifon 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 bufy meddling fiend.

That lays ftrong fiege unto this wretch's foul,
And from his bofom purge this black despair.
-Peace to his foul, if God's good pleasure be!
Lord Cardinal, if thou think'ft on Heav'n's blifs,
Hold up thy hand, make fignal of thy hope.
He dies, and makes no fign! O God, forgive him!
WAR. So bad a death argues a monstrous life.
K. HEN. Forbear to judge, for we are finners all.
Clofe up his eyes, and draw the curtain close,
And let us all to meditation.

SHAKSPEARE.

CHAP. XX.

WOL.

WOLSEY AND CROMWELL.

FAREWELL,

AREWELL, 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 bloffoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;
The third day comes a froft-a killing froft,
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 fwim on bladders,
These many fummers in a fea of glory:

-But

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 ftream, 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 afpire 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 pow'r to fpeak, Sir.
WOL. What! amaz'd

At my misfortunes? Can thy fpirit wonder
A great man should 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 burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden

Too heavy for a man that hopes for Heav'n!

CROм. I'm glad your Grace has made that right ufe 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 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 fomewhat fudden

But he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his Highness' favour, and do juftice
For truth's fake and his confcience; that his bones,
When he has run his courfe, 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 fecrefy 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 fafety.

CROM. O my Lord!

Muft I then leave you? Muft I needs forego
So good, fo noble, and so true a mafter?
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 pray'rs
For ever, and for ever, fhall be yours.

WOL. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miferies, but thou has forc'd me,

Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman

I

Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell,
And when I am forgotten, as I fhall be,

And fleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me muft 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 fafe 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 fin fell the angels; how can man then
(Though the image of his Maker) hope to win by't?
Love thyfelf laft; cherish those hearts that wait thee;
Corruption wins not more than honefty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To filence envious tongues. Be just and fear not.
Let all the ends thou ain't at, be thy Country's,

Thy God's, and Truth's; then if thou fall'ft, O Cromwell!
Thou fall'ft a bleffed martyr! Serve the King-

And prithee 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

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

CROM. Good Sir, have patience.

Blow winds, and crack your cheeks; rage, blow!

You cataracts, and hurricanoes, fpout

Till you have drench'd our feeples, drown'd the cocks! You fulph'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 fpill at once
That make ungrateful man!

Rumble thy belly full, fpit fire, fpout 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 fubfcription. Then let fall
Your horrible pleasure.-Here I ftand your brave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and defpis'd old man;
But yet I call you fervile minifters,

That have with two pernicious daughters join'd
Your high engender'd battles, 'gainst a head,
So old and white as this. Oh! oh! 'tis foul.
Let the great gods,

That keep this dreadful pudder o'er our heads,

Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
That haft within thee undivulged crimes,

Unwhipp'd of Juftice! Hide thee, thou bloody hand :

Thou