Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here; And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks, That fought with us upon St. Crispian's day. CHAP. J SHAKESPEARE. ΧΙΧ. Henry VI. Warwick, and Cardinal Beaufort. K. Henry. How fares my lord? Speak, Beau fort, to thy sovereign. Car. If thou be'st Death, I'll give thee England's treasure, Enough to purchase such another island, thee. Car. Bring me unto my trial when you will: Dy'd he not in his bed? Where should he die? Can I make men live whether they will or no? Oh, torture me no more! I will confessAlive again? Then show me where he is : I'll give a thousand pound to look upon himHe 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 the apothecary Bring the strong poison that I bought of him. K. Henry. O thou eternal Mover of the heav'ns, Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch! Oh, 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 Cardinal, if thou think'st on Heaven's bliss, Hold up thine 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. Henry. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all. Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close, And let us all to meditation. SHAKESPEARE. CHAP. XX. Wolsey and Cromwell. Wol. FAREWEL, a long farewel to all my great. ness! This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth Why, how now, Cromwell? Crom. I have no power to speak, Sir, At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder Crom. How does your grace? Wol. Wol. Why well; Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur'd me, I humbly thank his grace; and, from these shoul ders, These ruin'd pillars, out of pity taken 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' indure more miseries, and greater far, Crom. 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. Wol. That's somewhat suddenBut 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 him! What more? Crom. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome; Install'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne, Whom the King hath in secrecy long married, Going to chapel; and the voice is now Only about her coronation. Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down: O Cromwell, ( P The King has gone beyond me: all my glories 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 Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear well, And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle Peace, Cromwell! Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king- There take an inventory of all I have, I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell! Crom. Good Sir, have patience. Wol. So I have. Farewell The hopes of court! my hopes in Heaven do dwell. CHAP. ΧΧΙ. SHAKESPEARE. BLOW Lear. Low 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 thun der, Strike flat the thick rotundity o' th' world! Crack Nature's mould, all germins spill at once That make ungrateful man! Rumble thy belly full, 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; But yet I call you servile ministers, |