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With me into the earth.

It seem'd in me

But as an honour snatch'd with boist'rous hand,
And I had many living to upbraid

My gain of it by their assistances;

Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed,
Wounding supposed peace. All their bold feats,
Thou seest, with peril I have answered.
For all my reign hath been but as a scene
Acting that argument and now my death
Changes the mode; for what in me was purchas'd,
Falls upon thee in a much fairer sort,

For thou the garland wear'st successively.

Yet though thou stand'st more sure than I could do,
Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are green.

And all my friends, which thou must make thy friends,
Have but their stings and teeth newly ta'en out;
By whose fell working I was first advanc'd,
And by whose power I well might lodge a fear,
To be again displac'd: which to avoid
I cut them off, and had a purpose now
To lead out many to the Holy Land:
Lest rest and lying still might make them look
Too near into my state. Therefore, my Harry,
Be it thy course to busy giddy minds

With foreign quarrels; that action, hence borne out,
May waste the memory of former days.
More would I, but my lungs are wasted so,
That strength of speech is utterly denied me
How I came by the crown, O God forgive!
And grant it may with thee in true peace live!
P. HEN. My gracious liege,

You won it, wore it, kept it, gave it me:
Then plain and right must my possession be:
Which I, with more than with a common pain,
'Gainst all the world will rightfully maintain.


What's he that wishes for more men from England?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin,
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow

To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous of gold:

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear:
Such outward things dwell not in my desires :
But if it be a sin to covet honour,

I am the most offending soul alive.

No, 'faith, coz, wish not a man from England:
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour,
As one man more, methinks, would share from me,
For the best hopes I have. O do not wish one more :
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport 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 called the feast of Crispian :
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand on tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian :
He that outlives this day, and sees old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
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 all remember, with advantages,

The feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in their mouths as household words,
Harry the king, Bedford, and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloster,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall 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 rememberéd :
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 e'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
That fought with us upon Saint Crispian's day.



WOL. Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness ! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, nips his root, And then he falls as I do. I have ventured, 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 the world, I hate ye! I feel my heart new open'd. O how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than war or women have, And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. Why, how now, Cromwell ? CROM. I have no power to speak, sir. WOL.

What, amaz'd At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder A great man should decline? Nay, if you weep, I am fallen indeed.



How does your grace?

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 still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me,
I humbly thank his grace: and from these shoulders,
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity taken

A load would sink a navy, too much honour.
O 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden

Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.

CROM. I'ın glad your grace has made that right use of it, WOL. I hope I have: I'm 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.
What news abroad?


The heaviest and the worst,

God bless him!

Is your displeasure with the king.


CROM. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord Chancellor in your



That's somewhat sudden;

But he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his highness' favour, and do justice
For truth's sake and his conscience, that his bones,
When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings,
May have a tomb of orphan's tears wept on them!
What more?

CROM. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome;
Install'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

WOL. That's news indeed.

Last, that the Lady Anne,

Whom the king had in secrecy long married,
This day was viewed in open as his queen,
Going to chapel: and the voice is now

Only about her coronation.

WOL. There was the weight that pulled me down. O The king has gone beyond me; all my glories [Cromwell! In that one woman I have lost for ever.

No sun shall ever usher forth mine 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 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,
For thine own future safety.


and provide

O my lord,

Must I then leave you? Must I needs forego
So good, so 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, shall be

WOL. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries but thou hast 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 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 way 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 missed 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
(Though the image of his Maker) hope to win by't?
Love thyseli last: cherish those hearts that hate 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, O Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king-

And pry'thee 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

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