Puslapio vaizdai

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.

Crom. Good sir, have patience.

Wol. So I have. Farewell

The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell.


Katharine. Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led'st me,

That the great child of honor, cardinal Wolsey,
Was dead?

Griffith. Yes, madam; but, I think, your grace,
Out of the pain you suffered, gave no ear to't.

Kath. Pr'ythee, good Griffith, tell me how he died: If well, he stepp'd before me, happily,

For my example.

Grif. Well, the voice goes, madam:

For after the stout earl Northumberland

Arrested him at York, and brought him forward

(As a man sorely tainted,) to his answer,

He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill,

He could not sit his mule.

Kath. Alas! poor man!

Grif. At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester,
Lodg'd in the abbey; where the reverend abbot,
With all his convent, honorably receiv'd him;

To whom he gave these words,-O father abbot,
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
Pursued 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 honors to the world again,
His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.
Kath. So may he rest; his faults lie 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
Tied all the kingdom: simony was fair play;
His own opinion was his law: I'the presence


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.

Grif. Noble madam,

Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues
We write in water. May it please your highness
To hear me speak his good now?

Kath. Yes, good Griffith;
I were malicious else.

Grif. This cardinal,

Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly
Was fashion'd to much honor. 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: one of which fell with him,
Unwilling to outlive the good that did it;
The other, though unfinish'd, yet so famous,
So excellent in art, and still so rising,
That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue
His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him;
For then, and not till then, he felt himself,
And found the blessedness of being little :
And, to add greater honors to his
Than man could give him, he died, fearing God.
Kath. After my death I wish no other herald,
No other speaker of my living actions,

To keep mine honor from corruption,

But such an honest chronicler as Griffith.

Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me,
With thy religious truth and modesty,
Now in his ashes honor: Peace be with him!


How many thousands of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep! gentle sleep! Nature's soft nurse! How have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness?

Why rather sleen liest thou in smoky eriks

Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,

And hush'd with buzzing night flies to thy slumber,
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,

And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody?
O thou dull god! Why liest thou with the vile,
In loathsome beds, and leav'st a kingly couch,
A watchcase to a common larum bell?
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast,
Seal up the shipboy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge,
And in the visitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the tops,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf'ning clamors in the slipp'ry shrouds,
That with the hurly, death itself awakes;
Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose
To the wet sea boy in an hour so rude,
And in the calmest and the stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then happy, lowly clown!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.,


Lorenzo and Jessica.

Lor. How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music

Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night,

Become the touches of sweet harmony.

Sit, Jessica: Look, how the floor of heaven

Is thick inlaid with pattens of bright gold;

There's not the smallest orb, which thou behold'st,
But in his motion like an angel sings,

Still quiring to the young ey'd cherubims:

Such harmony is in immortal souls!

But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay

Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.—


Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn;

With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear,

And draw her home with music.

Jes. I am never merry when I hear sweet music. [Music.
Lor. The reason is, your spirits are attentive:

For do but note a wild and wanton herd,

Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,

Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,

Which is the hot condition of their blood;

If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,
Or any air of music touch their ears,

You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their savage eyes turn to a modest gaze,

By the sweet power of music: Therefore, the poet
Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods;
Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage,
But music for a time doth change his nature:
The man that hath no music in himself,

Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affection dark as Erebus:

Let no such man be trusted.-Mark the music.

Enter PORTIA and NERISSA, at a distance.

Por. That light we see is burning in my hall :

How far that little candle throws his beams!

So shines a good deed in a naughty world.

Ner. When the moon shone, we did not see the candle.
Por. So doth the greater glory dim the less:

A substitute shines brightly as a king,
Until a king be by; and then his state
Empties itself as doth an inland brook
Into the main of waters.-Music! hark!

Ner. It is your music, madam, of the house.
Por. Nothing is good, I see, without respect:
Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.
Ner. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.
Por. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark,
When neither is attended; and, I think,
The nightingale, if she should sing by day,
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.

How many things by season season'd are
To their right praise, and true perfection!

-Peace, hoa! the moon sleeps with Endymion.
And would not be awak'd!

Lor. That is the voice,

Or I am much deceiv'd, of Portia.

[Music ceases.

Por. He knows me, as the blind man knows the cuckow,

By the bad voice.

Lor. Dear lady, welcome home.

Por. We have been praying for our husbands' welfare, Which speed, we hope, the better for our words.

Are they return'd?

Lor. Madam, they are not yet;

But there is come a messenger before,

To signify their coming.

Por. Go in, Nerissa,

Give order to my servants, that they take

No note at all of our being absent hence.—
Nor you, Lorenzo ;-Jessica, nor you.

[A trumpet sounds.

Lor. Your husband is at hand, I hear his trumpet: -We are no tell-tales, madam; fear you not.

Por. This night, methinks, is but the day-light sick, It looks a little paler; 't is a day,

Such as the day is when the sun is hid.


Portia. The quality of mercy is not strained;
It droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven,
Upon the place beneath: It is twice bless'd;
It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes:
"T is mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptered sway,
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings:

It is an attribute to God himself;

And earthly power doth then show likest God's,
When mercy seasons justice: Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this-
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: We do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy.


Helena. Is all the counsel that we two have shar'd,
The sister's vows, the hours that we have spent,
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For parting us.-O, and is all forgot?

All school-day's friendship, childhood innocence?
We, Hermia, like two artificial gods,

Have with our needles created both one flower;
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion;
Both warbling of one song, both in one key;
As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds,
Had been incorporate. So we grew together,
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted;
But yet a union in partition,

Two lovely berries moulded on one stem.

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