Let him depart; his Paffport fhall be made,
And Crowns for Convoy put into his Purfe:
We would not die in that Man's Company,
That fears his Fellowship to die with us.
This Day is call'd the Feaft of Crifpian:
He that out-lives this Day, and comes fafe home,
Will ftand a tiptoe when this Day is nam'd,
And rouze him at the Name of Crispian :
He that out-lives this Day, and fees old Age,
Will yearly on the Vigil feaft his Neigbhours,
And fay, To-morrow is Saint Crifpian:

Then will he ftrip his Sleeve, and how his Scars:
Old Men forget; yet fhall not all forget,

But they'll remember, with Advantages,

What Feats they did that Day. Then fhall our Names,
Familiar in their Mouths as Houfhold Words,

Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Glofter,
Be in their flowing Cups frefhly remember'd.
This Story fhall the good Man teach his Son,
And Crifpin, Crifpian fhall ne'er go by,
From this Day to the Ending of the World,
But we in it fhall be remembered;

We few, we happy few, we Band of Brothers:
For he, to-day that fheds his Blood with me,
Shall be my Brother: be he ne'er fo vile,
This Day fhall gentle his Condition.
And Gentlemen in England, now a-bed,

Shall think themfelves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their Manhoods cheap, while any fpeaks,
Who fought with us upon Saint Crifpian's Day.

F

LESSON VIII,

The Fall of Cardinal Wolfey.

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 blufhing Honours thick upon him; The third Day comes a Froft, a killing Froft, And when he thinks, good eafy Man, full furely His Greatnefs is a ripening, nips his Root;

And

And then falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton Boys, that fwim 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 muft 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 afpire 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.

Enter Cromwell, ftanding amazed.

Why, how now, Cromwell!

Crom. I have no Power to fpeak, Sir.

Wolf. What, amaz'd

At my Misfortunes? Can thy Spirit wonder,

A great Man fhould decline? Nay, if you weep,
I'm fallen indeed.

Crom. How does your Grace?

Wolf. 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 fill and quiet Confcience. The King has cur'd me,
I humbly thank his Grace, and, from thefe Shoulders,
Thefe 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.

Crom. I'm glad your Grace makes that right Ufe of it.
Wolf. I hope I do: I'm able now, methinks,

Out of a Fortitude of Soul I feel,

T'endure more Miferies, and greater far

Than my weak-hearted Enemies dare offer.

What News abroad?

Crom. The heaviest, and the worst,

Is your Displeasure from King.

Welf. God bless him!

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chofen

Lord Chancellor in your Place.

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Woll.

Wolf. 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 him!
What more?

Crom. That Cranmer is return'd with Welcome;
Inftall'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.
Wolf. That's News, indeed.

Crom. Laft, 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 pull'd me down,
O Cromwell,

The King has gone beyond me: all my Glories
In that one Woman I have loft for ever.

No Sun fhall ever ufher 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 Mafter. Seek the King; 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 Service perifh too. Good Cromwell,
Neglect him not; be mindful, and provide
For thine own future Safety.

Crom. O, my Lord,

Muft I then leave you? Muft I needs forgo
So good, fo noble, and fo true a Master?
Bear witnefs, all that have not Hearts of Iron,
With what a Sorrow Cromwell leaves his Lord.
The King fhall have my Service; but my Prayers
For ever, and for ever fall be yours.

Wolf. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a Tear
In all my Miferies; but thou haft forc'd me,
Out of thy honeft Truth, to play the Woman-
Let's dry our Eyes: and thus far hear me, Cramwell;
Mark but my Fall, and that which ruin'd me,
And when I am forgotten, as I fhall be,

And fleep in dull cold Marble, where no mention
Of me muft more be heard: fay then, I taught thee;

Say,

Say, Wolfey, 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 rife in;
A fure and safe one, tho' thy Mafter mifs'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 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 fall'ft, O Cromwell, Thou fall'ft a bleffed 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.

And my Integrity to Heaven, is all

My Robe,

I now dare call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but ferv'd my God with half the Zeal

I ferv'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.

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

Caffius.

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 difregarded.

Brutus. You wrong'd yourself to write in fuch a Cause.
Caf. In fuch a Time as this, it is not meet

That every nice Offence fhould bear its Comment.
Brut. Nay, let me tell you, Caffius, you yourself

Are much fufpected of an itching Palm;
And that you fell your Offices for Gold,
To Undefervers.

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Caf. I an itching Palm?

You know that you are Brutus, that speak this;
Or, by the Gods, this Speech were else your laft.

Brut. The Name of Caffius honours this Corruption,
And Chaftifement doth therefore hide its Head.

C. Chafftisement !

Brut. Remember March, the Ides of March remember! Did not great Julius bleed for Juftice fake?

What Villain touch'd his Body, that did ftab,
And not for Juftice? What, fhall one of us,
That ftruck the foremoft Man of all the World,
But for fupporting Robbers; fhall we now
Contaminate our Fingers with base Bribes?
And fell the mighty Mecd of our large Honours
For fo much Trafh, as may be grafped thus?
I had rather be a Dog, and bay the Moon,
Than fuch 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, Caffius.
Caf. I am.

Brut, I fay you are not.

Caf. Urge me no more, I fhall forget myself

Have mind upon your Health

Brut. Away, flight Man!

Caf. Is't poffible?

-tempt me no farther.

Brut. Hear me, for I will fpeak,

Muft I give way and room to your rafh Choler?
Shall I be frighted when a Madman ftares?

Caf. O Gods! muft 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.

Muft I obferve you? Muft I fitand and crouch
Under your tefty Humour? By the Gods,
You fhall digeft the Venom of your Spleen,
Tho' it do fplit you: For from this Day forth,
I'll ufe you for my Mirth, yea, for my Laughter,
When you are wafpifh.

Caf. Is it come to this?

Brut. You fay, you are a better Soldier;

Let it appear fo; make your Vaunting true,

And