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Cardinal WOLSEY's Lamentation of his Fall.

SHAKESPEARE

F

AREWELL, a long Farewell to all my Great

ness! 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 eafy Man, full surely His Greatness is a ripening, nips his Root ; And then 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 brake 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 this World, I hate you; I feel my Heart new open’d. Oh, how wretched Is that

poor Man, that hangs on Princes Favours ! There is, betwixt that Smile which we aspire to, That fweet Regard of Princes, and our Ruin, More Pangs and Fears than War and Women know; 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 forc'd me, Out of thy honeft Truth, to play the WomanLet's dry our Eyes : And thus far hear me, Cromwell; Mark but my Fall, and that which ruin'd me, And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold Marble, where no Mention

Of

Ofme mast more be heard : Say then, I taught thee
Say, Wolsey, that once rode the Waves of Glory,
And founded all the Depths and Shoals of Honour,
Found thee a Way, out of this Wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, tho' thy Maiter miss'd it.
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 wait thee;
Corruption wins not more than Honesty.
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’it. 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
| now dare 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
lave left me naked to mine Enemies.

Preservation by Land and by Sea.

A Divine O D E.

SPECTATOR.

I.

OW are thy Servants blesi, O Lord !

How sure is their Defence ! Eternal Wisdom is their Guide, Their Help Omnipotence.

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2. In

2. In foreign Realms, and Lands remote,

Supported by Thy Care,
Through burning Climes I pass’d unhurt,

And breath'd in tainted Air.

3. Thy Mercy sweeten'd ev'ry Soil,

Made ev'ry Region please ;
The hoary Alpine Hills is warm'd,

And smooth'd the Tyrrhene Seas.

4. Think, O my Soul, devoutly think,

How with a frighted Eyes
Thou saw'st the wide extended Deep

In all its Horrors rise !

5. Confusion dwelt in ev'ry Face,

And Fear in ev'ry Heart; When Waves on Waves, and Gulphs in Gulphs

O'ercame the Pilot's Art.

6. Yet then, from all my Griefs, O Lord,

Thy Mercy set me free,
Whilst in the Confidence of Pray'r

My Soul took Hold on Thee;

7. For tho' in dreadful Whirls we hung

High on the broken Wave,
I knew Thou wert not flow to Hear,

Nor Impotent to Save.

8. The Storm was laid, the Winds retir'd,

Obedient to thy Will;
The Sea, that roar'd at thy Command,

At thy Command was stilli

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9. In Midst of Dangers, Fears, and Death,

Thy Goodness I'll adore,
And praise thee for thy Mercies past;

And humbly hope for more.
10. My Life, if thou preserv'it my Life,

Thy Sacrifice shall be ;
And Death, if Death must be my Doom,

Shall join my Soul to Thee.

RECOVERY from SICKNESS.

A Divine ODE.

SPECTATOR,

I.

THEN rising from the Bed of Death,

O'erwhelm'd with Guilt and Fear, I see my Maker, Face to Face,

O how shall I appear!

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2. If yet, while Pardon may be found,

And Mercy may be fought,
My Heart with inward Horror shrinks,

And trembles at the Thought ;
3. When thou, O Lord, shalt stand disclos'd

In Majesty fevere,
And fit in Judgment on my Soul,

O how shall I appear!
4.
But Thou hast told the troubled Mind,

Who does her Sins lament, The timely Tribute of her Tears

Shall endless Woe prevent.

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5. Then see the Sorrows of my Heart.

Ere yet it be too late ;
And hear my Saviour's dying Groans

To give those Sorrows Weight.

6. For never shall my Soul despair

Her Pardon to procure,
Who knows thine only Son has dy'd

To make her Pardon fure.

An EPITAPH.

SPECTATOR.

H Н

ERE Innocence and Beauty lies, whose Breath

Was snatch'd by early, not untimely Death.
Hence did she go just as she did begin
Sorrow to know, before she knew to fin.
Death, that does Sin and Sorrow thus prevent,
Is the next Blessing to a Life well-spent.

On Mrs. MASON. In Bristol Cathedral.

By the Rev. Mr. W. MASON.

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AKE, holy Earth,! all that my Soul holds

dear!
Take that best Gift which Heav'n so lately gave ;
To Bristol's Fount I bore with trembling Care
Her faded Form: She bow'd to taste the Wave,
And died-Does Youth, does Beauty, read the Line!
Does sympathetic Fear their Breasts alarm?
Speak, dead MARIA ! breathe a Strain divine ;
Ev'n from the Grave thou fhalt have power to charm.
Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee ;

Bid

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