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Enter CROMWELL, standing amazed.

Why how now, Cromwell?

Crom. I have no power to speak, sir.

Wol. What! amazed

At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline? Nay, if you weep,

I'm fallen 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 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.

Oh, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden

Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.

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 his 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 returned with welcome;
Installed Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.
Wol. That's news, indeed!

Crom. Last, that the Lady Ann,

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 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 fallen 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. 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 tears, 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 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 which 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 '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-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 heav'n, is all

I dare now call my 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. So I have.

The hopes of court.

Farewell

My hopes in heav'n do dwell.

PROTEUS AND VALENTINE.

SHAKSPEARE.

[See page 312.]

Pro. Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu! Think on thy Proteus, when thou haply seest Some rare noteworthy object in thy travel. Wish me partaker in thy happiness,

When thou dost meet good hap; and, in thy danger,
If ever danger do environ thee,

Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers,
For I will be thy beadsman, Valentine.

Val. And on a love-book pray for my success.
Pro. Upon some book I love I'll pray for thee.
Val. That's on some shallow story of deep love
How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont.
Pro. That's a deep story of a deeper love;
For he was more than over shoes in love.

Val. 'Tis true; for you are over boots in love,
And yet you never swam the Hellespont.
Pro. Over the boots? nay, give me not the boots.
Val. No, I'll not, for it boots thee not.

Pro.

Val.

What?

To be

In love, when scorn is bought with groans; coy looks With heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth, With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights.

If haply won, perhaps, a hapless gain

If lost, why then a grievous labour won;
However, but a folly bought with wit,
Or else a wit by folly vanquished.

Pro. So by your circumstance, you call me fool.
Val. So by your circumstance, I fear you'll prove.
Pro. 'Tis love you cavil at; I am not Love.
Val. Love is your master, for he masters you;
And he that is so yoked by a fool.

Methinks should not be chronicled for wise.

Pro. Yet writers say, As in the sweetest bud The eating canker dwells, so eating love Inhabits in all the finest wits of all.

Val. And writers say, As the most forward bud

Is eaten by the canker, ere it blow,

Even so by love the young and tender wit
Is turn'd to folly; blasting in the bud,
Losing his verdure even in the prime,
And all the fair effects of future hopes.
But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee ?
Thou art a votary to fond desire.

Once more adieu: my father at the road
Expects me coming, there to see me shipp'd.
Pro. And thither will I bring thee, Valentine.
Val. Sweet Proteus, no; now let us take our leave.
Pro. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan!
Val. As much to you at home! and so farewell!

SCENE FROM "EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR." BEN JONSON.

"

[Born 1574, Ben Jonson appeared as a dramatist in his twentieth year. His father was a clergyman, but died before his birth; and his mother marrying, a second time, a bricklayer, Ben was taken from Westminster school at an early age, and put to the same employment. Disliking this occupation, he enlisted as a soldier, and served in the Low Countries, and is reported to have "killed his man in single combat, in view of both armies. On his return to England. he entered St. John's College, Cambridge; his stay there must have been limited, for when about twenty, he married the daughter of a London actor, making his debût at a low theatre near Clerkenwell; at the same time he commenced writing for the stage. About this time he quarrelled with a brother actor; they fought a duel with swords, and again Jonson killed his antagonist. He was committed to prison on a charge of murder, but discharged without a trial. In 1596 he produced his still celebrated comedy, "Every Man in his Humour;" this was followed by "Every Man out of his Humour." In 1603 "Sejanus," a classic drama; and, subsequently, three comedies,—viz., "Volpone," "The Alchemist," and "Epicene; or, the Silent Woman." second classical tragedy, "Catiline," appeared in 1611. In 1619 he was appointed Poet Laureate, and by virtue of his office he had to supply the court masques, in which he displayed much fancy, feeling, and sentiment. Jonson was a member of the Mermaid Club, founded by Sir Wa er Raleigh, of which Shakspeare, Beaumont and Fletcher, and other poets were also members. An attack of palsy embittered Jonson's later days, and he was compelled to write when his pen had lost its vigour. Jonson died in difficulties, 1637. He was buried in Westminster Abbey-the only inscription on his grave-stone being, for long afterwards, "O RARE BEN JONSON!]

CHARACTERS:

CAPTAIN BOBADIL, a Braggadocio. MASTER MATTHEW, a Simpleton.

SCENE-The mean and obscure lodging of BOBADIL.

BOBADIL discovered. Enter to him MASTER MATTHEW.

Mat. Save you, sir; save you, captain.

His

Bob. Gentle Master Matthew! Is it you, sir? Please you to sit down.

Mat. Thank you, good captain, you may see I am somewhat audacious.

Bob. Not so, sir. I was requested to supper last night by a sort of gallants, where you were wish'd for, and drunk to, I assure you Mat. Vouchsafe me, by whom, good captain ?

Bob. Marry, by young Wellbred and others. Why, hostess, a stool here for this gentleman.

Mat. No haste, sir; 'tis very well.

Bob. Body o' me!-it was so late ere we parted last night, 1 can scarce open my eyes yet; I was but new risen, as you came: how passes the day abroad, sir?-you can tell.

Mat. Faith, some half hour to seven: now, trust me, you have an exceeding fine lodging here, very neat and private !

Bob. Ay, sir; sit down, I pray you. Mr. Matthew (in any case) possess no gentlemen of our acquaintance with notice of my lodging. Mat. Who! I sir ?-no.

Bob. Not that I need to care who know it, for the cabin is convenient, but in regard I would not be too popular, and generally visited as some are.

Mat. True, captain, I conceive you.

Bob. For, do you see, sir, by the heart of valour in me (except it be to some peculiar and choice spirits, to whom I am extraordinarily engaged, as yourself, or so), I could not extend thus far.

Mat. O Lord, sir, I resolve so.

Bob. I confess I love a cleanly and quiet privacy, above all the tumult and roar of fortune. What new book ha' you there? What! Go by, Hieronymo !

Mat. Ay, did you ever see it acted? Is't not well penn❜d?

Bob. Well penn'd! I would fain see all the poets of these times pen such another play as that was!-they'll prate and swagger and keep a stir of art and devices, when (as I am a gentleman), read 'em, they are the most shallow, pitiful, barren fellows, that live upon the face of the earth again.

66

66

Mat. Indeed; here are a number of fine speeches in this book. "O eyes, no eyes, but fountains fraught with tears!" There's a conceit !-fountains fraught with tears! "O life, no life, but lively form of death!" Another! "O world, no world, but mass of public wrongs!" A third! "Confused and fill'd with murder and misdeeds!" A fourth! O, the muses! Is't not excellent? Is't not simply the best that ever you heard, captain? Ha! how do like it ?

Bob. "Tis good.

Mat. "To thee, the purest object to my sense,

The most refined essence heaven covers,

Send I these lines, wherein I do commence
The happy state of turtle-billing lovers.

If they prove rough, unpolish'd, harsh, and rude,
Haste made the waste. Thus mildly I conclude."
Bob. Nay, proceed, proceed. Where's this?

[BOBADIL is making him ready all this while. Mat. This, sir? a toy o' mine own, in my nonage; the infancy of my muses! But when will you come and see my study? Good faith, I can show you some very good things I have done of late. That boot becomes your leg passing well, captain, methinks. Bob. So, so; it's the fashion gentlemen now use.

Mat. Troth, captain, and now you speak o' the fashion, Master Wellbred's elder brother and I are fallen out exceedingly. This

Y

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