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God's will! I pray thee wish not one man more.
By Jove! I am not covetous of gold ;
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if nien my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires :
But if it be a sin to cuvet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, 'faith, my Lord, wish not a man from England:
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour,
As one man more, methinks would share from me,
For the best hopes I have. Don't wish one more :
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse :
We would not die in that man's company,
That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is call'd the feast of Crispian :
He that outlires this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian :
He that outlives this day, and sees old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say, To-morrow is Saint Crispian :
Then will he strip his sleeve, and show his scars.
Old men forget'; yet shall not all forget,
But they'll remeniber, with advantages,
The feats they did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household words,
Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salsbury and Glos'ter,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This

story shall the good man teach his sou :
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers:
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me,
Shall be my brother; be he e'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition.
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,

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Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here ;
And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks,
That fought with us upon St. Crispian's Day.

SHAKSPEARE.

CHAPTER XIX.

HENRY VI. WARWICK, AND CARDINAL

BEAUFORT.

K. HENRY. How fares my Lord. Speak, Beaufort, to

thy Sov'reign. ?
Car." if thou best Death, I'll give thee England's

treasure,
Enough to purchase such another island,
So thou wilt let me live, and feel no pain.

K. Henry. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life,
Where death's approach is seen so terrible !

WAR. Beaufort, it is thy Sov'reign speaks to thee.

Car. Bring me unto my trial when you will.
Dy'd he not in his bed? where should he die?
Can I make men live whether they will or no?
Oh, torture me no more, I will confess-
Alive again! Then show me where he is :
I'll give a thousand pounds to look upon him-
He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them:
Comb down his hair; look! look! it stands upright,
Like lime twigs set to catch my winged soul.
Give me some drink, and bid th’apothecary
Bring the strong poison that I bought of him.

K. HENRY. O'thou eternal Mover of the Hear’As,
Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch;
Oh, beat away the busy meddling fiend,
That lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul,
And from his bosom purge this black despair.

- Peace to his soul, if God's good pleasure be!
Lord Cardinal, if thou think'st on Heaven's bliss,
Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope.
He dies, and makes no sign ! O God forgive him.

War. So bad a death argues a monstrous life.

K. Henry. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all. Close up

his

eyes, and draw the curtain close, And let us all to meditation.

SHAKSPEARE.

CHAPTER XX.

WOLSEY AND CROMWELL.

Wot. Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness !
This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth
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 ihe world, I hate ye !
I feel my heart new open' 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 hope again.
Why, how now, Cromwell?

Crom. I have no 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 fall’n indeed.
Crom. How does

your

Grace? Wol. Why, well;

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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 curd 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.
0, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden,
Too heavy for a inan 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 soul I feel,
Tendure 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 return'd 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 his Queen,
Going to chapel; and the voice is now
Only

about her coronation. Wou. There was the weight that rullid me down : 0

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 fall’n man, upworthy 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. Good Cromwell,
Neglect him not; make use now, and provide
For thine 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 forc'd me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman Let's dry our eyes; and thus far bear 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 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 (though th' image of his Maker) hope to win by't? 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 aim'st at, be thy Country's, Thy God's, and Truth's; then if thou fall’st, Cromwell, Thou fallst a blessed martyr. Serve the KingAnd prithce lead me in

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