Jub. Syphax, I've promis'd to preserve my temper;
Why wilt thou urge me to confess a flame
I long have stified, and would fain conceal?
Sypb. Believe me, prince, tho hard to conquer love,
'Tis easy to divert and break its force.
Absence might cure it, or a second mistress
Light up another flame and put out this,
The glowing dames of Zama's royal court
Have faces flush'd with more exalted charms;
The fun that rolls his chariot o'er their heads,
Works up more fire and color in their cheeks;
Were you with these, my prince, you'd foon forget
The pale unripen'd beauties of the north.
Jub. 'Tis not a fet of features, nor complexion,
The tincture of the skin, that I admire.
Beauty foon grows familiar to the lover,
Fades in his eyes, and palls upon the sense,
The virtuous Marcia towers above her sex:
True, she is fair (Oh, how divinely fair!)
But still the lovely maid improves her charms,
With inward greatness, unaffected wifdom,
And fanctity of manners. Cato's foul
Shines out in every thing she acts or speaks.
While winning mildness and attractive smiles
Dwell in her looks, and, with becoming grace,
Soften the rigor of her father's virtues.
Sypb. How does your tongue grow wanton in her praise!
to all my greatness ! he puts forth
long farewell
Wol.
the state of man: To day
The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow bloffoms
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing froft,
And when he thinks, good easy man, full furely
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 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 stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of the world I hate you!
I feel my heart now open'd. Oh! how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile he would afpire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin,
More pangs and fears than war or women have;
And when he falls, he falls Lucifer,
Never to rife again.
Why, how now, Cromwell?
Crom. I have not 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 fallen indeed.
Crom. How does your grace?
Wol. Why, well;
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now, and I feel, within me.
A peace, above all earthly dignities;
A ftill and quiet confcience. 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 fink a navy, too much honor.
O, 'tis a burthen, Cromwell, 'tis a burthen,
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven!
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 foul I feel,
To endure more miseries, and greater far,
Than my weak hearted enemies dare offer.
Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chofen
Lord Chancellor, in your place.
Wol. That's fomewhat fudden.
But he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his highness' favor, and do justice,
For truth's fake and his confcience; that his bones,
When he has tan his course, and fleeps 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 the Queen,
Going to chapel and the voice is now
Only about her Coronation.
Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down: O
The king has gone beyond me; all my glories,
In that one woman, I have lost forever.
No sun shall ever usher forth my honors,
Or gild again the noble troops that waited
Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell,
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'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. Go Cromwell,
Neglect him not: make use now, and provide
For thy own future safety.
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 serivce; but, my prayers
For ever, and forever, shall be yours.
Wol. 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, Cromwell,
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull cold marble, where mention
Of me must no more be heard, say then, I taught thee:
Say, Wolsey that once rode the waves 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 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 it?
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 Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed 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.
And my integrity to Heav'n, is all
I dare to call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but served my God with half the zeal,
I serv,d my king, he would not in my age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.
Crom. Good Sir, have patience.
The hopes of court! My hopes in Heaven do dwell.
The quarrel of BRUTUS and CASSIUS
HAT you have wrong'd me doth appear in this,
You have condemded and noted Lucius Pella,
For taking bribes here of the Sardinians;
Wherein my letter (praying on his side,
Because I knew the man) was slighted of.
Bru. You, wrong'd yourself to write in such a case.
Cas. In such a time as this, it is not meet
That every nice offence shall bear its comment.
Bru. Yet let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself:
Are much condemn'd to have an itching palm
To sell and mart your offices for gold,
To undeservers.
Cas. I an itching palm!
You know that you are Brutus that speaks this,
Or, be assured, this speech were else your last.
Bru. The name of Cassius honor this corruption,
And chastisement doth therefore hide its head.
Bru. Remember March; the Ides of Marclı remember,
Did not great Julius bleed for justice sake ?
What villain touch'd his body, that did stab,
And not for Justice? What, shall one of us,
That struck the foremost man of all this world,
But for supporting robbers shall we now
Contaminate our fingers with these bribes?
And sell the mighty meed of our large honors
For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
I would rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.
Cas. Brutus, bay not me.
I'll not endure it; you forgot yourself,
To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I,
Older in practice, abler than yourself
To Make conditions.
Bru. Go to; you are not Cassius.
Cas. Urge me no more: I shall forget myself -
Have mind upon your health---tempt me no farther.
Bru. Away, slight man!
Cas. Is it possible?
Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.
Must I give way and room to your rash choler?
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?
Cas. Must I endure all this?
Bru. All this? ay more. Fret till your proud heart
Go tell your servants how choleric you are,
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?
Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch,
Under your testy humour? Be assured,
You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Tho it do split you; for, from this day forth,
I'll use you for my mirth, yea for my laughter,
When you are waspish.
Cas. Is it come to this?
Bru. You say you are a better soldier. Let it appearso; make your vaunting true,
And it shall please me well.
I shall be glad to learn of noble men.
Cas. You wrong me every way---you wrong me, Bru
I said an elder soldier, not a better:
Did I say a better?
Bru. If you did, I care not.
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