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With Nature never do they wage
A foolish strife; they see

A happy youth, and their old age
Is beautiful and free.

But we are pressed by heavy laws ;
And often, glad no more,

We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore.

If there be one who need bemoan

His kindred laid in earth,

The household hearts that were his own;

It is the man of mirth.

My days, my Friend, are almost gone,

My life has been approved,

And many love me; but, by none

Am I enough beloved.'

'Now both himself and me he wrongs,

The man who thus complains!

I live and sing my idle songs
Upon these happy plains,

And Matthew, for thy children dead

I'll be a son to thee !'

At this he grasped my hand, and said,

6 Alas! that cannot be.'

We rose up from the fountain-side;
And down the smooth descent

Of the green sheep-track did we glide;
And through the wood we went.

And, ere we came to Leonard's rock,
He sang those witty rhymes
About the crazy old church-clock,
And the bewildered chimes.

W. Wordsworth.

Suf.

CCLIII.

KING HENRY VIII.

ACT III. SCENE II.-Ante-chamber to the King's apartment.
WOLSEY, and the Dukes of NORFOLK and SUFFOLK.

ORD cardinal, the king's further pleasure is,
Because all those things you have done of
late,

By your power legatine, within this kingdom,
Fall into the compass of a præmunire,
That therefore such a writ be sued against you;
To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements,
Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be

Out of the king's protection. This is my charge.
Nor. And so we'll leave you to your meditations
How to live better. For your stubborn answer
About the giving back the great seal to us,

The king shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank you.
So fare you well, my little good lord cardinal.
[Exeunt all but Wolsey.

Wol. 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 hopes; 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,
This 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 aspéct 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.

Enter CROMWELL, and stands amazed.

Crom. I have no power to speak, sir.

Wol.

Why, how now, Cromwell!

What, amazed

At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep,
I am fall'n indeed.

Crom.

Wol.

How does your grace?

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now; and I feel within me
A peace above all earthly dignities,

Why, well;

A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me,
I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders,
These ruined 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 heaven!

Crom. I am glad your grace has made that right use of it.

Wol. I hope I have: I am able now, methinks,

Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,

To endure more miseries and greater far

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

Crom.

The heaviest and the worst

God bless him!

Is your displeasure with the king.

Wol.

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 his conscience; that his bones,
When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings,
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on 'em!
What more?

Crom. That Cranmer is returned with welcome,
Installed lord archbishop of Canterbury.

Wol.
Crom.

That's news indeed.

Last, that the Lady Anne,

Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,
This day was viewed in open as his queen,
Going to chapel; and the voice is now

Only about her coronation.

Wol. There was the weight that pulled 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 mine 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 have 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; good Cromwell,
Neglect him not; make use now, and provide
For thine own future safety.

Crom.

O my lord,

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 prayers
For ever and for ever shall be yours.

Wol. 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 missed it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruined 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 it?

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, prithee, 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.

Crom. Good sir, have patience.
Wol.

1

So I have. Farewell

W. Shakespeare.

The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell.

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