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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 honor -
Found thee a way, out of his wrack, to rise in;
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?
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 Cromwell,
Thou fall’st a blesséd martyr. Serve the king;
And - Prithee, 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
Have left ine naked to mine'enemies.
80. Death of Queen Katharine.
Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver
This to my lord the king.
Most willing, madam.
In which I have commended to his goodness
The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter:
The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her!
Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding;
(She is young, and of a noble, modest nature;
I hope she will deserve well;) and a little
To love her for her mother's sake, that loved him,
Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition.
Is, that his noble grace would have some pity
Upon my wretched women, that so long
Have followed both my fortunes faithfully:
Of which there is not one, I dare avow,
(And now I should not lie,) but will deserve,
For virtue, and true beauty of the soul,
For honesty, and decent carriage,
A right good husband, let him be a noble;
And, sure, those men are happy that shall have them.
The last is, for my men; - they are the poorest,
But poverty could never draw them from me; –
That they may have their wages duly paid them,
And something over to remember me by;
If heaven had pleased to have given me longer life,
And able means, we had not parted thus.
These are the whole contents :- And, good my lord,
By that you love the dearest in this world,
As you wish Christian peace to souls departed,
Stand these poor people's friend, and urge the king
To do me this last right.
By heaven, I will;
Or let me lose the fashion of a man!
Kath. I thank you, honest lord. Remember me
In all humility unto his highness :
Say, his long trouble now is passing
Out of this world : tell him, in death I blessed him,
For so I will. — Mine eyes grow dim. — Farewell,
My lord. — Griffith, farewell. - Nay, Patience,
You must not leave me yet, I must to bed;
Call in more women. - When I am dead, good wench,
Let me be used with honor; strew me over
With maiden flowers, that all the world may know
I was a chaste wife to my grave: embalm me,
Then lay me forth: although unqueened, yet like
A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me.
I can no more.
81. Hamlet and the Ghost. — Act I. Sc. 4.
HAMLET, HORATIO, and MARCELLUS.
Look, my lord, it comes !
Ham. Angels and ministers of grace defend us ! -
Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damned,
Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked, or charitable,
Thou comest in such a questionable shape,
That I will speak to thee; I'll call thee, Hamlet,
King, father, royal Dane : 0, answer me:
Let me not burst in ignorance! but tell,
Why thy canonized bones, hearsed in death,
Have burst their cerements! why the sepulchre,
Wherein we saw thee quietly in-urned,
Hath oped his ponderous and marble jaws,
To cast thee up again! What may this mean,
That thou, dead corse, again, in complete steel,
Revisit'st thus the glimpses of the moon,
Making night hideous; and we fools of nature,
So horridly to shake our disposition,
With thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls ?
Say, why is this? wherefore? what should we do?
Hor. It beckons you to go away with it,
As if it some impartment did desire
To you alone.
Look, with what courteous action
It wafts you to a more removed ground:
But do not go with it.
No, by no means.
Ham. It will not speak; then will I follow it.
Hor. Do not, my lord.
It wafts me still:-
Go on, I'll follow thee.
Where wilt thou lead me? speak, I'll go no further.
Ghost. Mark me.
My hour is almost come,
When I to sulphurous and tormenting flames
Must render up myself.
Alas, poor ghost! Ghost. Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing
To what I shall unfold. Ham.
Speak, I am bound to hear.
Ghost. So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt hear.
I am thy father's spirit;
Doomed for a certain term to walk the night;
And, for the day, confined to fast in fires,
Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature,
Are burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid
To tell the secrets of my prison-house,
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood;
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres;
Thy knotted and combinéd locks to part,
And each particular hair to stand an end,
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine;
But this eternal blazon must not be
To ears of flesh and blood:- List, Hamlet, O list! -
If thou didst ever thy dear father love,
Ham. O heaven!
Ghost. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murther.
82. Hamlet's Soliloquy on Death. -- Act III. Sc. 1. Ham. To be, or not to be, that is the question :
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die, – to sleep,
No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, - 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, — to sleep; –
To sleep! perchance to dream; --ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause : there's the respect,
That makes calamity of so long life :
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of disprized love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life;
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of ?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
From JULIUS CÆSAR. 83. Mark Antony's Oration over the dead body of Cæsar.
Act III. Sc. 2.
Ant. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is often interréd with their bones :
So, let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious :
If it were so, it was a grievous fault;
And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest,
(For Brutus is an honorable man;
So are they all, all honorable men ;)
Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle : I remember
The first time ever Cæsar put it on;
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii :-
Look! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through:
See, what a rent the envious Casca made:
Through this, the well-belovéd Brutus stabbed;
* And, as he plucked his curséd steel away,
Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it,
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel :
Judge, Q you gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all :
For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffing up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey's statue,
Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.
O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel,
The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what weep you, when you but behold
Our Cæsar's vesture wounded. Look you here,
Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.