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Crom. How does vour 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 cur'd me,
I humbly thank his Grace ; and, from these shouldiers^
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity taken
A load would sink a navy, too much honour.
O, 'tis a burthen, Cromwell, 'tis a burthen,
Too heavy for a man that hopei for heav'n!
Crom. I'm glad your Grace has made that right use of it,

Wot. 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 Ihe worst,
Is your displeasure with the King.
Wol. God bless him.

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord Cha.'icellor in your place.

IVol. That's somewhat sudden———
Hut 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,
Whtn 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.
Wol. That's news indeed.
Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne,
\Vhom the King hath in secrecy long married,
This day was view'd in open as his Queen,
Going to chapel; and the voice ig now
Only about Uejr coronation, A

Wol. There was the weig* that pull'd me dowo; 0

Cromwell,

The King has gone beyond me-r^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 tioops that waited
Upon mv 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 *un I pray may never set) I've told him
'What and how true thou art; he will advaace 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
Foi thine own future safety.

Cram. 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 your's.

Wol, Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries, but thou hast forc'd 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 waves 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 masters miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me:
Cromwell, £ charge thee, fling^away ambition;
Py that sin fell the augels; bow can man then

(Tho' th' image of his Makj^r) hope to win by'l?

Love thyself last; cherish .those hearts that wait thee j

Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence evious 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 pr'ythee 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 serv'd my God with half the zeal

I serv'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.

Shakspear.

. CHAP. XXI.

LEAR.

BLOW 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 sires, Singe my white head. And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the big rotundity o* th' world; Crack nature's mould, alt germins spill at once That make ungrateful man!

Rumble thy belly full, spit fire, spout rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughter*,

I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness;
I-never gave you kingdoms, calj'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,
That have with two pernicious daughters join'd
Your high engendered battles, 'gainst a he-d,
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 hast within thee undivulged crimes,
Unwhip'd of justice! Hide thee, thou bloody hand ^
Thou perjure, and thou simular of virtue,
That art incestuous ! caitiff', shake to pieces
That, under cover of convivial seeming,
Has practis'd on man's life—Close pent-up guilts,
Rive your concealing continents, and ask

Those dreadful summoners grace! 1 am a man,

More sinn'd against, than sinning.

Shakspearb.

Chap. xxn.
MACBETH's SOLILOftY.

IS this a dagger which I see before me,
Th' handle tow'rd 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 heart-oppressed brain ?.

I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.-

Thou marshal's! me the way that I was going;

And .such an instrument I was to use.

Mine eyes are made the fools o' th' other senses,

Or else worth all the rest—I see thee still;

And on the blade o' th' 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; now witchcraft celebrates

Pale Hecate's offerings: and wither'd Murther,

(Alarum'd by his. centinel, the wolf,

'Whose howl's his watch) thus with his stealthy pace,

With Tarquin's ravishing strides, tow'rds his design

Moves like a ghost.—Thou sound and firm-set eatth,

Hear uot 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—

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.

Shakspeare.

CHAP. XXIIT.

MACDUFF, MALCOLM, AND ROSSE.

SEE who comes here! Mai. My countryman; but yet I 'know him not. Macd. My ever gentle cousin, welcome hither. Mai. I know him now. Good Qod betimes remove Kk

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