Against your sacred person, in God's name,
Turn me away; and let the foul'st contempt
Shut door upon me, and so give me up
To the sharpest kind of justice.
QUEEN KATHARINE'S SPEECH TO CARDINAL WOLSEY.
You are meek, and humble mouth'd;
You sign your place and calling, in full seeming,*
With meekness and humility: but your heart
Is cramm'd with arrogancy, spleen and pride.
You have, by fortune, and his highness' favours
Gone slightly o'er high steps; and now are mounted
Where powers are your retainers: and your words,
Domestics to you, serve your will, as't please
Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you,
You tender more your person's honour, than
Your high profession spiritual.
KING HENRY'S CHARACTER OF QUEEN KATHARINE.
That man i' the world, who shall report he has
A better wife, let him in nought be trusted,
For speaking false in that; Thou art, alone,
(If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness,
Thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government,
Obeying in commanding,-and thy parts
Sovereign and pious else, could speak thec out,)†
The queen of earthly queens.
QUEEN KATHARINE ON HER OWN MERIT.
Have I liv'd thus long-(let me speak myself, Since virtue finds no friends,)—a wife, a true one? A woman (I dare say without vain glory,) Never yet branded with suspicion?
Have I with all my full affections
Still met the king? lov'd him next heav'n? obey'd him? Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him?t
Almost forgot my prayers to content him?
And am I thus rewarded? 'tis not well, lords.
Appearance. + Speak out thy merits.
Served him with superstitious attention.
Bring me a constant woman to her husband,
One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure,
And to that woman when she has done most,
Yet will I add an honour,-a great patience.
QUEEN KATHARINE COMPARED TO A LILY.
Like the lily,
That once was mistress of the field, and flourish'd I'll hang my head, and perish.
OBEDIENCE TO PRINCES.
The hearts of princes kiss obedience,
So much they love it: but to stubborn spirits,
They swell, and grow as terrible as storms.
OUTWARD EFFECTS OF HORROR.
Some strange commotion
Is in his brain: he bites his lip, and starts;
Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground,
Then, lays his finger on his temple; straight,
Springs out into fast gait:* then stops again,
Strikes his breast hard: and anon, he casts
His eye against the moon: in most strange postures
We have seen him set himself.
Abound, as thick as thought could make them, and
Appear in forms more horrid; yet my duty,
As doth a rock against the chiding flood,
Should the approach of this wild river break,
And stand unshaken yours.
EXTERNAL EFFECTS OF ANGER.
What sudden anger's this? how have I reap'd it? Ee parted frowning from me, as if ruin
Leap'd from his eyes: So looks the chafed lion
Upon the daring huntsman that has gall'd him;
Then makes him nothing.
I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness, And, from that full meridian of my glory,
I haste now to my setting: I shall fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.
THE VICISSITUDES OF LIFE.
So farewell to the little good you bear me,
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 ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders
This mary summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now hast left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp, and glory of this 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 wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.
CARDINAL WOLSEY'S SPEECH TO CROMWELL.
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;
And,--when I am forgotten, as I shall be;
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of,—say, I taught thee,
Say, Wolsey,-that once trod the ways 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 miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.
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 thyself 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 CromThou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king; [well, 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 mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but serv'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.
As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest,
As loud, and to as many tunes: hats, cloaks,
(Doublets, I think,) flew up; and had their faces
Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy
I never saw before. Great-bellied women,
That had not half a week to go, like rams
In the old time of war, would shake the press.
And make them reel before them. No man living
Could say, This is my wife, there; all were woven
So strangely in one piece.
CARDINAL WOLSEY'S DEATH.
At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester, Lodg'd in the abbey; where the reverend abbot, With all his convent, honourably receiv'd him; To whom he gave these words,—O, father abbol, An old man, broken with the storms of state, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye; Give him a little earth for charity!
So went to bed: where eagerly his sickness
Pursu'd him still; and, three nights after this,
About the hour of eight, (which he himself
Foretold, should be his last,) full of repentance,
Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows,
He gave his honours to the world again,
His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.
WOLSEY'S VICES AND VIRTUES.
So may he rest: his faults lay gently on him!
Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him,
And yet with charity,-He was a man
Of an unbounded stomach,* ever ranking
Himself with princes; one, that by suggestion
Try'd all the kingdom: simony was fair play;
His own opinion was his law: I' the presencet
He would say untruths; and be ever double,
Both in his words and meaning: He was never,
But where he meant to ruin, pitiful:
His promises were, as he then was, mighty;
But his performance, as he is now, nothing.
Of his own body he was ill, and gave
The clergy ill example.
Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues
We write in water.
Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly
Was fashion'd to‡ much honour. From his cradle,
He was a scholar, and a ripe, and good one;
Exceeding wise, fair spoken and persuading;
Lofty, and sour, to them that lov'd him not;
But, to those men that sought him, sweet as summer.
And though he were unsatisfied in getting,
(Which was a sin,) yet in bestowing, madam,
He was most princely: Ever witness for him
Those twins of learning, that he rais'd in you,
Ipswich, and Oxford! ones of which fell with him,
Unwilling to outlive the good that did it;
*Price. † Of the king. Formed for. § Ipswich.
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