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From “King Henry VIII.,” Act III. Sc. 2.
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, | 5 |
| 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 honor— | |
| Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; | 10 |
| A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. | |
| Mark but my fall, and that that ruined 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? | 15 |
| 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, | 20 |
| Thy God’s, and truth’s; then if thou fall’st, O Cromwell! | |
| Thou fall’st a blessed martyr. | |
| Serve the king; and—pr’ythee, lead me in: | |
| There take an inventory of all I have, | |
| To the last penny; ’t is the king’s: my robe, | 25 |
| And my integrity to heaven, is all | |
| I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell! | |
| Had I but served my God with half the zeal | |
| I served my king, he would not in mine age | |
| Have left me naked to mine enemies! * * * * * | 30 |
| 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 honors thick upon him: | |
| The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; | 35 |
| 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, | |
| This many summers in a sea of glory; | 40 |
| 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 forever hide me. | |
| Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: | 45 |
| I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched | |
| Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favors! | |
| There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, | |
| That sweet aspéct of princes, and their ruin, | |
| More pangs and fears than wars or women have: | 50 |
| And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, | |
| Never to hope again. | |
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