Ay then, I madden'd.

-Hark! hark! hark!-the bell,

The bell that I set knolling-hark!-Here, here,

Massy and cold it strikes-Here, here. (Clasping her

forehead.)

Duke. If this be true

Phil. My liege, it is the tale

That Fazio told me ere he died.

Bianca. Ay, sir,

The dying lie not-he, a dying man,

Lied not-and I, a dying woman, lie not:

For I shall die, spite of this iron here.

Duke to Ald. There is confession in thy guilty

cheeks.

Thou high-born baseness! beautiful deformity!
Dishonour'd honour !-How hast thou discredited
All that doth fetter admiration's eye,
And made us out of love with loveliness!

I do condemn thee, woman, by the warrant
Of this my ducal diadem, to put on thee
The rigid convent vows: there bleach anew
Thy sullied breast: there temper thy rank blood;
Lay ashes to thy soul; swathe thy hot skin
In sackcloth; and God give thee length of days,
To atone, by this world's misery, this world's sin.

[Exit ALDABELLA. Bianca. Bless thee, Heaven bless thee !-Yet it must

not be.

My Fazio said we must forgive her-Fazio

Said so; and all he said is best and wisest.

Duke. She shall have her desert :-aught more to ask

of us?

Bianca. My children thou 'lt protect them

-O my

liege,

Make them not rich; let them be poor and honest.

Duke. I will, I will.

Bianca. Why then 'tis time, 'tis time.

And thou believest he is no murderer? [DUKE bows assent,
Thou 'lt lay me near him, and keep her away from us.
It breaks, it breaks, it breaks—it is not iron.

[Dies.

REV. HENRY HART MILMAN.

FROM "HENRY EIGHTH."

Wolsey. 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 honours thick upon him ; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And when be 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 swim on bladders, These 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 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 who hangs on princes' favour! There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to, That sweet 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?

Cromwell. I have no power to speak, Sir.
Wol. What, amazed

At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline? Nay, if you weep,

I'm fall'n indeed.

Crom.

Wol.

How does your Grace?

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now, and I feel within me,
A peace above all earthly dignities;

Why, well;

A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me,
I humbly thank his Grace; and, from these shoulders,
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity taken

A load would sink a navy, too much honour.
Oh, 'tis a burthen, Cromwell, 'tis a burthen,

Too heavy for a man that hopes for heav'n!

Crom. I'm glad your Grace has made that right use

of it.

Wol. I hope I have: I'm able now, methinks,

Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,

T'endure more miseries, and greater far,

Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen

Lord Chancellor in your place.

Wol. That's somewhat sudden

But he's a learned man. May he continue

Long in his Highness' favour, and do justice

For truth's sake and his conscience; that his bones
When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings,
May have a tomb of orphan's tears wept on him!
What more!

Crom.

That Cranmer is return'd with welcome;

Install'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

Wol. That's news indeed.

Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne,

Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,
This day was view'd in open as his Queen,
Going to chapel; and the voice is now

Only about her coronation.

Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down: 0 Cromwell,

The king has gone beyond me: all my glories

In that one woman I have lost for ever.

No sun shall ever usher forth my honours,

Or gild again the noble troops that waited

Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell,
I am a poor fall'n man, unworthy now

To be thy lord and master. Seek the king,

(That sun I pray may never set) I've 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.

O my Lord,

Crom.
Must I then leave you? Must I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master?
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.

The king shall have my service; but my prayers
For ever, and for ever, shall be yours.

Wol. 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,

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me must more be heard, say then I taught thee;
Say, Wolsey, that once rode the waves of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it,
Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me :
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then
(Tho' the image of his Maker) hope to win by 't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that wait 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 Crom

well

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 '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 me naked to mine enemies.