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"But thee, my flower, whose breath was given
Nor will the Christian host,
Of her who loved thee most: She was the rainbow to thy sightThy sunthy heaven of lost delight!
"To-morrow let us do or die!
But when the bolt of death is hurled,
Seek we thy once-loved home? The hand is gone that cropped its flowers; Unheard their clock repeats its hours; Cold is the hearth within their bowers; And should we thither roam, Its echoes and its empty tread Would sound like voices from the dead.
"Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed, And by my side, in battle true,
A thousand warriors drew the shaft? Ah! there, in desolation cold, The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves, to ruin grown, Like me are death-like old.
Then seek we not their camp; for there
"But hark, the trump!
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:
Amidst the clouds that round us roll:
Because I may not stain with grief
Reflections of Cardinal Wolsey after his Fall from the Favor of Henry VIII. SHAKSPEARE.
Wol. FAREWELL, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
Enter CROMWELL, amazedly.
Why, how now, Cromwell?
Crom. I have no power to speak, sir.
Wol. What, amazed
At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep,
Crom. How does your grace?
Wol. Why, well;
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now; and I feel within me
A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me,-
A load would sink a navy-too much honor.
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.
Crom. I am glad your grace has made that right use of it. Wol. I hope I have. I am able now, methinks,
(Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,)
To endure more miseries, and greater far,
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.
Crom. The heaviest, and the worst,
Is your displeasure with the king.
Wol. God bless him!
Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord chancellor, in your place.
Wol. That's somewhat sudden;
Crom. That Cranmer is returned with welcome, Installed lord archbishop of Canterbury.
Wol. That's news, indeed.
Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne,
Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,
Only about her coronation.
Wol. There was the weight that pulled me down! O
The king has gone beyond me; all my glories,
No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors,
Or gild again the noble troops that waited
Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell;
(I know his noble nature) not to let
Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell,
Crom. O my lord,
Must I then leave you? Must I needs forego
The king shall have my service; but my prayers
Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
And silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.
Thy God's, and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blesséd 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 Heaven, is all
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Crom. Good sir, have patience.
Wol. So I have.
The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell.