CROM. How does your Grace ?
WOL. Why, well;

'Never fo truly happy, my good Cromwell.

I know myself now, and I feel within me

A peace above all earthly dignities;

A ftill and quiet confcience. The King has cur'd me, I humbly thank his Grace; and, from these shoulders,

These ruin'd pillars, out of pity taken

A load would fink a navy, too much honour.
O, 'tis a burthen, Cromwell, 'tis a burthen,
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heav'n!

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 foul I feel,

T' indure more miferies, and greater far, weak-hearted enemies dare offer.

Than my

What news abroad?

CROм. The heaviest and the worst,

Is your displeasure with the King.

WOL. God bless him!

CROM. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chofen

Lord Chancellor in your place.

WOL. That's fomewhat fudden

But he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his Highness' favour, and do justice
For truth's fake and his confcience; that his bones,
When he run his courfe, and fleeps in bleffings,
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on him!
What more?

CROM. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome; Install'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

C c

WOL.

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 am 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 perish too. Good Cromwell,
Neglect him not; make ufe now, and provide
For thine own future fafety.

CROM. O my Lord,

Muft I then leave you? Muft I needs forego
So good, fo noble, and fo true a mafter?
Bear witnefs, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a forrow Cromwell leaves his Lord.
The King fhall have my fervice; but my prayers
For ever, and for ever, fhall be your's.

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's

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 must more be heard, say then I taught thee;
Say, Wolfey, that once rode the waves of glory,
And founded all the depths and fhoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rife in;
A fure and fafe one, though thy mafter mifs'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 thyself laft; cherish those hearts that wait thee!
Corruption wins not more than honefty..

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To filence envious tongues. Be juft, 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'ft, O Cromwell, Thou fall'ft 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 ferv'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.

CHA P. XXI.

O

L E A R.

BLOW winds, and crack your cheeks; rage, blow!

You cataracts, and hurricanes, fpout

Till you have drench'd our steeples, 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;
But yet I call you fervile minifters,

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 undivulged crimes,
Unwhip'd of juftice! Hide thee, thou bloody hand;
Thou perjure, and thou fimular of virtue,
That art incestuous! caitiff, fhake to pieces,
That, under cover of convivial seeming,
Has practis'd on man's life-Close-pent-up guilts,

Rive your concealing continents, and afk
Those dreadful fummoners grace!-
More finn'd againft, than finning.

CHA P.

-I am a man,

XXII.

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.

SHAKESPEAR.

MACBETH's SOLILOQUY.

IS

S 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 fee thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vifion, fenfible

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

Mine eyes are made the fools o' th' other fenfes,
Or else worth all the reft-I 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 bufinefs, which informs

Thus to mine eyes.-Now o'er one half the world
Nature feems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd fleep; 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 ftealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing ftrides, tow'rds his defign
Moves like a ghoft.-Thou found and firm-fet earth,
Cc 3

Hear