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Let him depart; his Paliport 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 callid the Feast of Crispian :
He that out-lives this Day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tiptoe when this Day is nam'd,
And rouze him at the Name of Crispian:
He that out-lives this Day, and secs old Age,
Will yearly on the Vigil feast his Neigbhours,
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 remember, with Advantages,
What Feats they did that Day. Then shall our Names,
Familiar in their Mouths as Houthold Words,
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glofter,
Be in their flowing Cups freshly remember'd.
This Story ihall the good Man teach his Son,
And Crispin, 'Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this Day to the Ending of the World,
But we in it shall be remembered ;
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 ne'er so vile,
This Day shall gentle his Condition.
And Gentlemen in England, now a-bed,
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their Manhoods cheap, while any speaks,
Who fought with us upon Saint Crispian's Day.

L ESS ON VIII,

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The Fall of Cardinal Wolsey.
AREWEL, a long Farewel to all my Greatness !

This is the State of Man; to-day he puts forth
The tender Leaves of Hope ; to-morrow bloffoms,
And bears his blushing Honours thick upon him ;
The third Day comes a Froit, a killing Frost,
And when he thinks, good eafy Man, full surely
His Greatness is a ripening, nips his Root;

And

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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 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 this World, I hate ye;
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 sweet 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.

Enter Cromwell, standing amazed.
Why, how now, Cromwell!

Crom. I have no Power to speak, Sir.

IDolf. What, amaz'd
At my Misfortunes ? Can thy Spirit wonder,
A great Man should decline? Nay, if you weep,
I'm fallen indeed.
Crom. How does

your

Grace ?
Wolf. Why, well;
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now, and I feel within me
A Peace above all earthly Dignities;
A ftill and quiet Conscience. 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 Burden, Cromwell, 'tis a Burden,
Too heavy, for a Man that hopes for Heav'n.

Grom. I'm glad your Grace makes that right Use of it.

Wolf. I hope I do : I'm able now, methinks,
Out of a Fortitude of Soul I feel,
T'endure more Miseries, and greater far
Than my weak-liearted Enemies dare offer.
What News abroad?

Crom. The heaviest, and the worst,
Is your Displeasure from King.

Wolf. God bless him!

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen
Lord Chancellor in your Place.
G 3

Woll

Wolf. That's fomewhat sudden
But he's a learned Man. May he continue
Long in his Highness' Favour, and do Justice
For Truth's fake 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;
Installd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

Wolf. That's News, indeed.

Crom. Last, that the Lady Ann,
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.

Wolf. There was the Weight that pulld me down,
O 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, unworthy now
To be thy Master. Seek the King ; 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; be mindful, and provide
For thine own future Safety.

Crom. O, my Lord,
Must I then leave you ? Must I needs forgo
So good, fo 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 hall be

yours.
Wolf 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 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 mę muft more be heard : fay then, I taught thee;

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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 fure and safe one, tho' thy Master miss’d it.
Cromwell, I charge thee, Aing 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 silence envious Tongues. Be juft, and fear not.
Let all the Ends thou aim'ft at, be thy Country's,
Thy God's, and Truth's: Then if thou fall'it, O Cromwell,
Thou fall’tt a blessed Martyr. Serve the King;
And, prithee, lead ine 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 now dare call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but ferv'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.

Wolf. So I have. Farewel
The Hopes of Court, my Hopes are fix'd on Heaven.

LESSON IX. .

Calfius. T

The Quarrel of Brutus and Caffius in the Play of Julius Cæsar.

HAT you have wrong'd me, doth appear in this,

You have condemn'd and noted Lucius Pella, For taking Bribes here of the Sardians ; Wherein, my Letter (writ on his behalf, Because I knew the Man) was disregarded.

Brutus. You wrong'd yourself to write in such a Cause.

Caf. In such a Time as this, it is not meet
That every nice Offence should bear its Comment.

Brut. Nay, let me tell you, Caius, you yourseif
Are much suspected of an itching Palm ;
And that you sell your Offices for Gold,
To Undefervers,

G4

Cas. I an itching Palm ?
You know that you are Brutus, that speak this;
Or, by the Gods, this Speech were else your last.

Brut. The Name of Calius honours this Corruption,
And Chastisement doth therefore hide its Head.

CS. Chasstisement !

Brut. Remember March, the Ides of March remember!
Did not great Julius bleed for Justice fake?
What Villain touch'd his Body, that did ftab,
And not for Justice? What, shall one of us,
That struck the foremost Man of all the World,
But for supporting Robbers ; fhall we now
Contaminate our Fingers with base Bribes?
And sell the mighty Meed of our large Honours
For so much Trash, as may be grasped thus -
I had rather be a Dog, and bay the Moon,
Than such a Roman.

Caf. Brutus, bay not me;
I'll not endure it; I am a Soldier. I,
Older in Practice; abler than yourself
To make Conditions.

Brut. Go to; you are not, Cafius.
Caf. I am.
Brut, I say you are not.

Caf. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself-
Have mind upon your Health

-tempt me no farther.
Brut. Away, fight Man!
Caf. Is't poffible?

Biut. Hear me, for I will speak,
Must I give way and room to your rath Choler ?
Shall I be frighted when a Madman stares !

Caf. O Gods! must I endure all this?

Brut. All this ! ay, more. Fret till your proud Heart break;
Go, fhew your Slaves how choleric you are,
And make your Bondmen tremble.
Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch
Under your testy Humour? By the Gods,
You thall digest the Venom of your Spleen,
Tho' it do split you: For from this Day forth,
I'll use you for ny Mirth, yea, for my Laughter,
When you are walpith.

Cas. Is it come to this?

Brut. You say, you are a better Soldier; Let it appear fo; make your l'aunting true,

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