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More pangs and fears than wars or women have.
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again!

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear

In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thine 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 more must be heard of,- say I taught thee,
Say Wolsey that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,
Found thee a way out of his wrack to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
Mark but my fall and that that ruined me!
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition.
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't?

Love thyself 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 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 now call mine own. 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!

THE EXECUTION OF SIR THOMAS MORE.

JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE.

THE scaffold had been awkwardly erected, and shook as he placed his foot upon the ladder. "See me safe up," he said to Kingston; "for my coming down I can shift for myself. He began to speak to the people, but the sheriff begged him not to proceed, and he contented himself with asking for their prayers, and desiring them to bear witness for him that he died in the faith of the Holy Catholic Church, and a faithful servant of God and the king. He then repeated the Miserere psalm on his knees; when he had ended and had risen, the executioner, with an emotion which promised ill for the manner in which his part in the tragedy would be accomplished, begged his forgiveness. More kissed him. "Thou art to do me the greatest benefit that I can receive," he said. "Pluck up thy spirit, man, and be not afraid to do thine office. My neck is very short; take heed, therefore, that thou strike not awry for saving of thine honesty." The executioner offered to tie his eyes. "I will cover them myself," he said; and binding them in a cloth which he had brought with him, he knelt and laid his head upon the block. The fatal stroke was about to fall, when he signed for a moment's delay

while he moved aside his beard. "Pity that should be cut," he murmured; "that has not committed treason!" With which strange words, the strangest perhaps ever uttered at such a time, the lips most famous through Europe for eloquence and wisdom closed forever.

V

SIR FRANCIS DRAKE.

CHARLES KINGSLEY. EXTRACT.

WHO is that short, sturdy, plainly dressed man who stands, with legs a little apart and hands behind his back, looking up with keen gray eyes into the face of each speaker? His cap is in his hands, so you can see the bullet head of crisp brown hair and the wrinkled forehead, as well as the high cheek-bones, the short, square face, the broad temples, the thick lips which are yet as firm as granite. A coarse, plebeian stamp of man; yet the whole figure and attitude are that of boundless determination, self-possession, energy; and when at last he speaks a few blunt words, all eyes are turned respectfully upon him,- for his name is Francis Drake.

EPIGRAM ON FRANCIS DRAKE.

BEN JONSON.

THE stars above will make thee known

If man were silent here;

The sun himself cannot forget

His fellow-traveller.

ROBIN HOOD.

JOHN KEATS.

No! those days are gone away,
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the downtrodden pall
Of the leaves of many years ;
Many times have Winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's. whispering fleeces

Since men knew nor rents nor leases.

No! the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill,

Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Whose lone echo gives the half
To some wight amazed to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.

On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can

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Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment
Down beside the pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale,
Messenger for spicy ale.

Gone the merry morris din;
Gone the song of Gamelyn;
Gone the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the "greené shawe" -
All are gone away and past;
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his tufted grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,

She would weep, and he would craze;
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fallen beneath the dock-yard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her-Strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!

So it is yet let us sing
Honor to the old bow-string!
Honor to the bugle-horn!
Honor to the woods unshorn!
Honor to the Lincoln green!
Honor to the archer keen!
Honor to tight Little John,
And the horse he rode upon!

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