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Your mafter wed me to; nothing but death
Shall e'er divorce my dignities.

Wolfey. Pray, hear me

Catharine, 'Would I had never trod this English earth,
Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it!

Ye've angels' faces, but Heaven knows your hearts-
What shall become of me, now! wretched lady!
I am the most unhappy woman living.

Alas! poor wenches, where are now your fortunes?
[To her Women.

Ship wreck'd upon a kingdom where no pity,
No friends, no hope, no kindred weep for me;
Almost no grave allowed me. Like the lily,
That once was mistress of the field, and flourished,
I'll hang my head, and perish.

Wolfey. If your grace

Could but be brought to know our ends are honest,
You'd feel more comfort. Why fhould we, good lady,
Upon what cause, wrong you? Alas! our places,
The way of our profeffion, is against it;

We are to cure fuch forrows, not to fow them.
For goodness' fake, confider what you do ;
How you may hurt yourself; nay, utterly

Grow from the king's acquaintance, by this carriage.
The hearts of princes kifs obedience,

So much they love it; but to ftubborn fpirits,
They fwell and grow as terrible as ftorms.

I know you have a gentle, noble temper,

A foul as even as a calm; pray, think, think us

Those we profess, peace-makers, friends and servants.

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Campeius. Madam, you'll find it fo. You wrong your virtues, With these weak woman's fears. A noble spirit,

As yours was put into you, ever cafts

Such doubts, as falfe coin, from it.

The king loves you;

Beware you lofe it not; for us, if you please

To truft us in your bufinefs, we are ready
To ufe our utmoft ftudies in your service.

Catharine. Do what you will, my lords; and pray, forgive me,

If I have used myself unmannerly.

You know I am a woman, lacking wit

To make a feemly anfwer to fuch perfons.

Pray, do my service to his majefty;

He has my heart, yet, and fhall have my prayers,

While I fhall have my life. Come, reverend fathers,
Beftow your counfels on me. She now begs,
That little thought, when the fet footing here,
She fhould have bought her dignities fo dear.

Z 2

[Exeunt.

SCENE

SCENE VI.

The prefent Scene prefents us with a fecond object of compaffion, which though it interests us after a different manner from the former, as neither being fo innocent, nor fuffering fo unjustly; yet, fhall I hazard the expreffion? affects us almoft as much. We do not, indeed, feel our minds impreffed with fuch a tender fenfibility towards the latter, as the firft; but, for the honour and dignity of human nature, let me fay, that our commiferation, in the fecond cafe, arifes from principles of a nobler kind; from our forgiveness of the penitent, and our compaffion for his misfortunes, foftened still more by our forrow for his guilt: fo that, upon the whole, the generofity of our fentiment, in one inftance, nearly equals the fympathy of it, in the other.

The true fupputation of the precarioufnefs and inftability of all worldly happiness and greatness, with the fit temper and refignation to bear their lofs, are moft pathetically and poetically fet forth, in the following beautiful and affecting scene.

Wolfey, in bis difgrace.

Farewel, a long farewel, to all my greatnefs!
This is the ftate of man-To-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hopes, to-morrow bloffoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;
The third day comes a froft, a killing froft,
And when he thinks, good eafy man, full furely
His greatness is a ripening, nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that fwim on bladders,
Thefe many fummers in a fea 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 fervice, to the mercy
Of a rude fiream, that muft for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye
I feel my heart new opened-Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man, that hangs on Princes' favours!
There is, between that fmile we would aspire to,
That fweet aspect of princes, and our ruin,
More pang's and fears than war or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

Enter

Enter Cromwell, ftanding amazed,

Why, how now, Cromwell?

Cromwell. I have no power to speak, Sir.

Wolfey. What, amazed

At my misfortunes? Can thy fpirit wonder
A great man fhould decline? Nay, if you weep,
I'm fallen indeed.

Cromwell. How does your grace ?

Wolfey. 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 cured me;
I humbly thank his grace-and from these shoulders,
These ruined 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 heaven!

Cromwell. I'm glad your grace has made that right use of it.

Wolfey. I hope I have. I'm able, now, methinks,

Out of a fortitude of foul I feel,

T'endure more miferies, and greater, far,

Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.
What news abroad ?

Cromwell. The heaviest and the worst,

Is your displeasure with the king.

Wolfey. God bless him!

Cromwell. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chofen
Lord Chancellor in your place.

Wolfey. That's fomewhat fudden

But he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his highnefs' favour, and do justice,

For truth's fake, and his confcience; that his bones,
When he has run his courfe, and fleeps in bleffings,
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on them!
What more?

Cromwell. That Cranmer is returned with welcome
Inftalled Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

Wolfey. That's news, indeed.

Cromwell. Laft, that the lady Anne,

Whom the king hath in fecrecy long married,
This day was viewed in open, as his queen,
Going to chapel; and the voice is now,
Only about her coronation.

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Wolfey. There was the weight that pulled me down. O Crom

well!

The king has gone beyond me; all my glories

In that one woman I have loft for ever.

No fun fhall ever usher forth my honours,

Or gild again the noble troops that waited

Upon my fmiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell,
I am a poor fallen 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 perifh too. Good Cromwell,
Neglect him not, make ufe now, and provide
For thine own future safety.

Cromwell. O, my lord,

Muft I then leave you? muft I needs forego
So good, fo noble, and fo true a master?

Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a forrow Cromwell leaves his lord!
The king shall have my service; but my prayers,
For ever, and for ever, fhall be yours.
Wolfey. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear,
In all my miferies; but thou haft forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes, and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And fleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me muft more be heard, fay 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 safe one, though thy master miffed it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me-
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that fin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't?
Love thyfelf laft, cherish thofe 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'ft at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and truth's-Then if thou falleft, O Cromwell,

A

Rede the waves, inftead of trod the waves, so altered by Warburton, to preferve the metaphor pointed out in the two next lines, waves, depth, fheals, and wreck.

Wait, instead of bate. Warburton. A more natural, fenfible, and political fenfe of the paffage.

Theu

Thou falleft a bleffed martyr. Serve the king;
And, prithee, lead me in-

There take an inventory of all I have,
To the laft penny. 'Tis the king's. My robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, is all
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
"Had I but ferved my God, with half the zeal
"I ferved my king, he would not in mine age
"Have left me naked to mine enemies *.'
Cromwell. Good Sir, have patience.

Wolfey. So I have. Farewel

The hopes of Court! my hopes in Heaven do dwell,

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Our first great object, before mentioned, is here prefented to us again, to charm us with that truly Christian spirit, with which, though deeply fuffering under the fuppofed enmity of Wolfey, fhe not only forgives him her injuries, but liftens to his praife without refentment, and even commends his honeft Welch encomiaft.

Kimbolton Cafle.

Enter Catharine, fick, and led in between Griffith, ber GentlemanUher, and Patience, Ler Woman.

Griffub. How does your grace?

Catharine. O Griffith, fick to death;

My legs, like loaded branches, bow to the earth,
Willing to leave their burden. Reach a chair-
So-now methinks I feel a little eafe.

[Sitting down.

Didft thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led'ft me,
That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolfey,
Was dead?

Griffith. Yes, madam; but I think your grace,
Out of the pain you fuffered, gave no ear to it.

Catharine. Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died-
If well, he ftept before me, happily,

For my example,

Griffith. Well, the voice goes, madam.

For after the ftout earl of Northumberland

Arrested him at York, and brought him forward,

As a man forely tainted, to his answer,
He fell fick, fuddenly, and grew fo ill,

He could not fit his mule.

• This laft fentence Wolfey did really speak, as recorded in history.

Catharine

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