You do look, my son, in a moved sort
As if you were dismayed; be cheerful, Sir;
Our revels now are ended; these our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and are
Melted into air, into thin air;

And, like the baseless fabrick of this vision
The clod-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rock behind; We are such stuff
As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep!

Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves;

And ye, that on the sands with fruitless feet
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets, that
By moonshine do the green-sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites; and you, whose pas-

time

Is to make midnight mushrooms; that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid (Weak masters though you be), I have bedimmed The noontide sun, called forth the mutinous winds,

And 'twixt the green sea and the azured vault Set roaring war; to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire, and rifted Jove's stout oak With his own bolt; the strong based promontory Have I made shake; and by the spurs plucked up The pine and cedar; graves, at my command,

Have waked their sleepers; gaped, and let them forth,

By my so potent art; But this rough magic
I here abjure; and when I have required
Some heavenly music (which even now I do)
To work mine end upon their senses, that
This airy charm is for-I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,

And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my books!

The fall of Cardinal Wolsey from the pinnacle of earthly power was the work of his own duplicity, greed and fraud, and all ministers of state may take warning from this great wreck of unholy ambition! King Henry the Eighth sacrificed everything for his physical and religious ambition. Listen and profit by the last words of the old, ruined Cardinal:

"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!

I have touched the highest point of all my great

ness

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!

"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;
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;
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;
I feel my heart new opened; O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is betwixt that smile he 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!

The King has gone beyond me, all my glories
In that one woman (Anne) I have lost forever;
No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors,
Or gild again the noble troops that waited
Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Crom-
well,

I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now

To be thy lord and master; seek the King; That sun, I pray, may never set! I have 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, and provide For thine own future safety.

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, Crom-
well;

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 wreck 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 own maker hope to win by it?
Love thyself least; cherish those hearts that hate
thee:

Corruption wins not more than honesty!
Still in thy right hand carry gentle place
To silence envious tongues. Be just and fear
not!

Let all the aims thou aim'st at be thy country's;
Thy God's and Truth's; then if thou fall'st, 0,
Cromwell,

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr; serve the King; And, pray thee, lead me in;

There take an enventory 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, Crom

well,

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!"

At the conclusion of this greatest of monologues King James arose at the head of the royal banquet board, and lifting a glass of sparkling champagne, proposed three cheers for Shakspere, which were given with intense feeling, echoed and re-echoed through those royal halls like thunder music from the realms of Jupiter.

The King beckoned William to approach the throne chair, and there, in the presence of the nobility of the realm, placed upon his lofty brow a wreath of oak leaves, with a monogram crown ring to decorate the digit finger of the brilliant Bard.

It was worth the gold and glory of all the ages to have heard the "Divine" William scatter his nuggets of eloquence; and until my pilgrimage of a thousand years reincarnates me again into the "Island of Immortality," I shall cherish that banquet night as the greatest milestone in the memory of my ruminating rambles.

Glory, like the sun on rushing river,

Shines down the years, forever, and forever!