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LXXXVI. WOLSEY and CROMWELL.

Wol. This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth Wol. F

AREWELL, a long farewell, to all my greatness!

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 shoot;
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
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 you!
I feel my heart now open'd. Oh! how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours?
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin,
More pangs and fears than war or women have ;
And when he falls he falls like Lucifer,

Never to rise again.

[Enter CROMWELL.]

Why, how now, Cromwell?

Crom. I have not 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'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 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 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,

To 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,
Install'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.
Wol. That's news indeed!

Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne,

Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,
This day was view'd in open as the Queen,
Going to chapel; and the voice is now

Only about her coronation.

Wol. There was the weight that pulled me down,
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. Go Cromwell,

Neglect him not: make use now, and provide
For thy 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 eyes; and thus far hear me Cromwell,
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

And sleep in dull cold marble, where mention

Of me must no 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, tho' thy master miss'd 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
(Tho' the image of his Maker) hope to win by it?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that wait 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 aimest at, be thy country's,

Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,
Thou fall' t 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 heaven is all

I dare to 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 my age,
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

Crom. Good Sir, have patience.

Wol. So I have. Farewell

The hopes of court! My hopes in heaven do dwell.

LXXXVII. The QUARREL of BRUTUS and CASSIUS.
Cas.
and noted Lucius Pella,
THAT you have wrong'd me doth appear in this,

For taking bribes here of the Sardians;
Wherein my letter (praying on his side,
Because I knew the man) was slighted of.

Bru. You wrong'd yourself to write in such a case."
Cas. In such a time as this, it is not meet
That every nice offence should bear its comment.
Bru. Yet let me tell you Cassius, you yourself
Are much condemn'd to have an itching palm
To sell and mart your offices for gold,
To undeservers.

Cas. I an itching palm!

You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or be assured that speech were else your last.

Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption,
And chastisement doth therefore hide its head.

Cas. Chastisement !

Bru. Remember March; the ides of March remember. Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake? What villain touch'd his body, that did stab, And not for justice? What, shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world, But for supporting robbers; shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes ? And sell the mighty meed of our large honours For so much trash as may be grasped thus? I would rather be a dog and bay the moon, Than such a Roman.

Cas. Brutus, bay not me,

I'll not endure it; you forget yourself,
To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I,
Older in practice, abler than yourself,
To make conditions.

Bru. Go to; you are not Cassius.
Cas. I am.

Bru. I say you are not.

Cas. Urge me no more. I shall forget myself Have mind upon your health-tempt me no farther. Bru. Away, slight man!

Cas. Is it possible!

Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.

Must I give way to your rash choler?
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?

Cas. Must I endure all this!

Bru. All this! ay more. Fret till your proud heart breaks. Go tell your slaves how choleric you are,

And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?
Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch
Under your testy humour? Be assured,

You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Tho' it do split you! for, from this day forth
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,
When you are waspish.

Cas. Is it come to this!

Bru. You say you are a better soldier ;
Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,
And it shall please me well. For my own part,
I shall be glad to learn of noble men.

Cas. You wrong me every way-you wrong me, Brutus. I said, an older soldier, not a better:

Did I

I

say a better?

Bru. If you did I care not.

Cas. When Cæsar liv'd he durst not thus have mov'd me. Bru. Peace, peace; you durst not so have tempted him. Cas. I durst not!

Bru. No.

Cas. What! durst not tempt him?

Bru. For your life you durst not.

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love:

may do what I shall be sorry for.

Bru. You have done what you shall be sorry for.

There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats:

For I am arm'd so strong in honesty,

That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you

For certain sums of gold, which you denied me ;
For I can raise no money by vile means.
By heaven, I had rather coin my heart

And drop my blood for drachms, than to wring
From the hard hand of peasants, their vile trash,
By any indirection. I did send

To you for gold to pay my legions,

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