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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'm a poor fall'n 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. Good Cromwell, Neglect him not; make use now, and provide For thine own future safety.

Crom. O my lord,

Bear witness,

Must I then leave you? Must I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master?
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 hear

well,

me,

Crom

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
(Tho' 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, Ó
Cromwell!

Thou fall'st 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 cali 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
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.

CHA P. XXI.

Lear.

SHAKESPEARE.

Brow winds, and crack your cheeks; rage,

You, cataracts, and hurricanoes, spout

blow!

Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks!

You sulph'rous and thought-executing fires,
Singe my white head. And thou, all shaking thun◄

der,

Strike flat the thick rotundity o' th' world! Crack Nature's mould, all germins spill at once That make ungrateful man

Rumble thy belly full, spit fire, spout rain Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters. I tax not you, ye elements, with unkindness; I never gave you kingdoms, call'd you children; You owe me no subscription. Then let fall Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your brave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man; But yet I call you servile ministers,

Pa

That have with two pernicions 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 hast within thee undivulged crimes,
Unwhip'd of justice! Hide thee, thou bloody hand;
Thou perjure, and thou simular of virtue,
That art incestuous! catiff, shake to pieces,
That, under cover of convivial seeming,
Has practis'd on man's life-Close pent-up guilts,
Rive your concealing continents, and ask
Those dreadful summoners grace!—I am a man,
More sinn'd against, than sinning.

SHAKESPEARE.

CHA P. XXII.

Macbeth's Soliloquy.

Is this a dagger which I see before me

The handle tow'rd my hand? come,

thee.

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let me clutch

I have thee not, and yet I see thee still,
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling, as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable

As this which now I draw.

Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.

Mine eyes are made the fools o' th' other senses
Or else worth all the rest—I see thee stili ;
And on the blade o' th' dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There's no such
thing

It is the bloody business which informs

Thus to mine eyes. Now, o'er one half the world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse

The curtain'd sleep; now Witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings: and wither'd Murther, (Alarm'd by his sentinel, the wolf,

Whose howl's his watch) thus with his stealthy

pace,

With Tarquin's ravishing strides, tow'rds his de

sign

Moves like a ghost.

earth

Thou sound and firm-set

Hear not my steps, which way they walk for fear
The very stones prate of my where-about:
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it.- -Whilst I threat,

I

lives

go, and 'tis done; the bell invites me, Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell

That summons thee to heav'n or to hell!

he

SHAKESPEARE.

CHAP. XXIII.

Macduff, Malcolm, and Rosse.

Macd. SEE, who comes here!

Mal. My countryman; but yet I know him not. Macd My ever-gentle cousin, welcome hither. Mal. I know him now. Good God,

move

The means that makes us strangers!
Rosse. Sir, Amen.

Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?
Rosse. Alas, poor country,

Almost afraid to know itself. It cannot

betimes re

Be call'd our mother but our grave; where nothing, But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; Where sighs and groans, and shrieks that rend the

air,

Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems A modern ecstacy; the dead man's knell

Is there scarce ask'd for whom: and good men's

lives

Expire before the flowers in their caps;
Dying or e'er they sicken.

Macd. Oh, relation

Too nice, and yet too true!

Mal. What's the newest grief?

Rosse. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker,

Each minute teems a new one.
Macd. How does my wife?

Rosse. Why, well

Macd. And all my

Rosse. Well too.

children?

Macd. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace? Rosse. No, they were at peace when I did leave

'em.

Macd. Be not a niggard of your speech: how Soes it?

Rosse. When I came hither to transport the

tidings,

Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour
Of many worthy fellows that were out,
Which was to my belief witness'd the rather,
For that I saw the tyrants power a-foot.

Now is the time of help: your eye in Scotland
Would create soldiers, and make women fight,
To doff their dire distresses.

Mal. Be't their comfort

We're goming thither: gracious England hath
Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men;
An older and better soldier, none

That Christendom gives out.

Rosse. Would I could answer

This comfort with the like; but I have words
That would be howl'd out in the desert air,
Where hearing should not catch them.
Macd. What, concern they

The gen'ral cause? or is it a free grief,
Due to some single breast?

Rosse. No mind that's honest 9

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But in it shares some woe; tho' the main part
Pertains to you alone.

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