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Wol. That's news indeed!

CROM. Laft, that the lady Anne,

Whom the king hath in fecrecy 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'm 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 ftir him,

(I know his noble nature) not to let

Thy hopeful fervice perifh too. Good Cromwell,
Neglect him not; make ufe now, and provide
For thine own future safety.

CROM. O my lord,

Muft I then leave you? Muft I needs forego
So good, fo noble, and fo true a master?
Bear witnefs, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a forrow Cromwell leaves his lord.
The king shall have my fervice; but my prayers
For ever, and for ever, shall be yours.

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WOL. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miferies, but thou haft forc'd me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman-

Let

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, say then I taught thee;
Say, Wolfey, that once rode the waves of glory,
And founded all the depths and shoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rife in:
A fure and safe one, though thy mafter 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
(Tho' th' image of his Maker) hope to win by't?
Love thy felf laft; cherish thofe hearts that wait thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle Peace,

To filence envious tongues. Be juft, and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim'ft 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 pr'ythee 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 fery'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,

WoL. So I have. Farewel

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

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CHAP. XXI.

LEAR.

BLOW winds, and crack your cheeks; rage, blow! You cataracts, and hurricanes, fpout

Till you have drench'd our fteeples, drown'd the cocks!

You fulph'rous and thought-executing fires,

Singe my white head. And thou all-fhaking 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 kingdom, 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 ;
fervile minifters,

But yet I call you

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 undivulg'd crimes,

Unwhip'd of justice! Hide thee, thou bloody hand;
Thou perjure, and thou fimular of virtue,
That art incestuous! catiff, shake to pieces,
That, under cover of convivial seeming,

Has practis'd on man's life-Clofe pent-up guilts,

Rive your concealing continents, and ask
Those dreadful fummoners grace!

I am a man,

More finn'd againft, than finning.

SHAKSPEARE

CHAP. XXII.

MACBETH's SOLILOQUY.

Is this a dagger which I fee before me,

The handle tow'rd my hand? come, let me clutch thee.—
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vifion, fenfible

To feeling, as to fight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a falfe creation
Proceeding from the heat-oppreffed brain?
I fee thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.-

Thou marshal'ft me the way that I was going;
And fuch an inftrument I was to use.

Mine eyes are made the fools o' th' other fenfes,
Or elfe worth all the reftI fee thee ftill;
And on the blade of th' dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not fo 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-feems dead, and wicked dreams abuse

'The curtain's fleep; now Witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings: and wither'd Murther, (Alarm'd by his centinel, the wolf,

Whofe howl's his watch) thus with his ftealthy pace,

With Tarquin's ravishing strides, tow'rds his defign
Moves like a ghost.- -Thou fure and firm-fet earth,

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Hear

Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
The very ftones prate of my where-about :

And take the present horror from the time,

Which now fuits with it.Whilft I threat, he lives—
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me,
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell

That fummons thee to heaven or to hell!

SHAKSPEARE,

CHAP. XXIII.

MACDUFF, MALCOLM, AND ROSSE.

MACD.

SEE who comes here!

MAL. My countryman: but yet I know him not. MACD. My ever-gentle coufin, welcome hither. MAL. I know him now. Good God, betimes remove The means that makes us strangers!

ROSSE. Sir, Amen.

MACD. Stands Scotland where it did?

ROSSE. Alas! poor country!

Almost afraid to know itself. It cannot

Be call'd our mother, but our grave; where nothing,
But who knows nothing, is once feen to smile;
Where fighs and groans, and fhrieks that rend the air,
Are made, not mark'd; where violent forrow feems
A modern ecstasy; the dead man's knell

Is there scarce ask'd, for whom : and good men's lives
Expire before the flowers in their caps;

Dying or e'er they ficken.

MACD. Oh, relation

Too nice, and yet too true!

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