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And fay, To-morrow is Saint Crispian :
Then will he ftrip his fleeve, and fhew his fcars.
The feats they did that day. Then shall our names
Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter,
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
And gentlemen in England, now a-bed,
CHA P. XIX.
HENRY VI. WARWICK, AND CARDINAL BEAUFORT.
OW fares my Lord? Speak, Beaufort,
to thy Sovereign.
CAR. If thou be'ft Death, I'll give thee England's
Enough to purchafe fuch another ifland,
Peace to his Soul if God's good pleasure be?!
Published as the Act directs, by JJohnson in S.Pauls Church Yard, 1 Aug. 1780.
So wilt thou let me live, and feel no pain.
K. HENRY. Ah, what a fign it is of evil life,
Where death's approach is feen fo terrible!
WAR. Beaufort, it is thy Sovereign speaks to thee.
K. HENRY. O thou eternal Mover of the heav'ns,
K. HENRY. Forbear to judge, for we are finners all.
WOLSEY AND CROMWELL,
CAREWEL, a long farewel to all my greatness! This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow bloffoms, And bears his blufhing honours thick upon him; The third day comes a froft, a killing frost, And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his shoot; And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, Like little wanton boys, that fwim on bladders, Thefe many fummers in a fea 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 ftream, that muft for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye! I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to, That fweet aspect of princes, and his ruin, More pangs and fears than war or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.
Why, how now, Cromwell?
CROM. I have no power to fpeak, Sir,
At my misfortunes? Can thy fpirit wonder