Shall be my brother; be he e'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition.
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispian's day.
18. WOLSEY AND CROMWELL.
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
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 the world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new open'd. 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 war or women have,
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again. Why, how now, Cromwell ?
CROM. I have no power to speak, sir.
WOL.
What, amaz'd
At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline? Nay, if you weep,
I am fallen indeed.
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 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 heaven.
CROM. I'ın 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,
To endure more miseries, and greater far,
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.
What news abroad ?
The heaviest and the worst,
Is your displeasure with the king.
CROM. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord Chancellor in your place.
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 orphan's tears wept on them!
What more?
CROM. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome;
Install'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.
WOL. That's news indeed.
Свом.
Last, that the Lady Anne,
Whom the king had 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 The king has gone beyond me; all my glories [Cromwell! 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'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.
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 must more be heard, say then I taught thee;
Say, Wolsey, that once rode the way 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 ruin'd me:
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:
By that sin fell the angels: how can man then
(Though the image of his Maker) hope to win by't?
Love thyseli 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 pry'thee 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
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.
The hopes of court! My hopes in heaven do dwell.
Blow, wind, 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,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all shaking thunder,
Strike flat the thick rotundity o' th' world!
Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once,
That make ungrateful man!
Rumble thy bellyful! spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters.
I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness;
I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children;
You owe me no subscription: then, let fall
Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand, your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man.
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That have with two pernicious daughters joined
Your high-engender'd battles, 'gainst a head
So old and white as this. Oh! oh! 'tis foul.
That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads,
Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,
That hast within thee undivulged crimes,
Unwhipp'd of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand;
Thou perjured and thou simular man of virtue,
That art incestuous. Cairiff, to pieces shake,
That under covert and convenient seeming,
Hast practised on man's life-close pent-up guilts,
Rive your concealing continents, and ask
Those dreadful summoners grace. I am a man
More sinn'd against than sinning.
20. MACBETH'S SOLILOQUY.
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee ·
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind; a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshallest me the way that I was going:
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest :-I see thee still;
And on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing.
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er one half the world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep: witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings: and withered murder,
(Alarum'd hy his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch) thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
The very stones prate of my where-about,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whilst I threat, he lives--
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath give
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell.
21. ANTONY'S FUNERAL ORATION OVER CESAR'S
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
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