SHAKESPEARE
This royal throne of kings, this sceptr’d isle,This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,This other Eden, demi-paradise,This fortress built by Nature for herselfAgainst infection and the hand of war,This happy breed of men, this little world,This precious stone set in the silver sea,Which serves it in the office of a wallOr as a moat defensive to a house,Against the envy of less happier lands,This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,Fear’d by their breed, and famous by their birth,Renowned for their deeds as far from home,For Christian service and true chivalry,As is the sepulchre in stubborn JewryOf the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son,This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land.William Shakespeare.
This royal throne of kings, this sceptr’d isle,This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,This other Eden, demi-paradise,This fortress built by Nature for herselfAgainst infection and the hand of war,This happy breed of men, this little world,This precious stone set in the silver sea,Which serves it in the office of a wallOr as a moat defensive to a house,Against the envy of less happier lands,This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,Fear’d by their breed, and famous by their birth,Renowned for their deeds as far from home,For Christian service and true chivalry,As is the sepulchre in stubborn JewryOf the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son,This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land.William Shakespeare.
This royal throne of kings, this sceptr’d isle,This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,This other Eden, demi-paradise,This fortress built by Nature for herselfAgainst infection and the hand of war,This happy breed of men, this little world,This precious stone set in the silver sea,Which serves it in the office of a wallOr as a moat defensive to a house,Against the envy of less happier lands,This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,Fear’d by their breed, and famous by their birth,Renowned for their deeds as far from home,For Christian service and true chivalry,As is the sepulchre in stubborn JewryOf the world’s ransom, blessed Mary’s Son,This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land.
William Shakespeare.
This England never did, nor never shall,Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,But when it first did help to wound itself,Come the three corners of the world in arms,And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue,If England to itself do rest but true.William Shakespeare.
This England never did, nor never shall,Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,But when it first did help to wound itself,Come the three corners of the world in arms,And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue,If England to itself do rest but true.William Shakespeare.
This England never did, nor never shall,Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,But when it first did help to wound itself,Come the three corners of the world in arms,And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue,If England to itself do rest but true.
William Shakespeare.
Now all the youth of England are on fire,And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies:Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thoughtReigns solely in the breast of every man:They sell the pasture now to buy the horse,Following the mirror of all Christian kings,With wingèd heels, as English Mercuries.For now sits Expectation in the air,And hides a sword from hilts unto the pointWith crowns imperial, crowns and coronets,Promised to Harry and his followers.The French, advised by good intelligenceOf this most dreadful preparation,Shake in their fear and with pale policySeek to divert the English purposes.O England! model to thy inward greatness,Like little body with a mighty heart,What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do,Were all thy children kind and natural!
Now all the youth of England are on fire,And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies:Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thoughtReigns solely in the breast of every man:They sell the pasture now to buy the horse,Following the mirror of all Christian kings,With wingèd heels, as English Mercuries.For now sits Expectation in the air,And hides a sword from hilts unto the pointWith crowns imperial, crowns and coronets,Promised to Harry and his followers.The French, advised by good intelligenceOf this most dreadful preparation,Shake in their fear and with pale policySeek to divert the English purposes.O England! model to thy inward greatness,Like little body with a mighty heart,What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do,Were all thy children kind and natural!
Now all the youth of England are on fire,And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies:Now thrive the armourers, and honour’s thoughtReigns solely in the breast of every man:They sell the pasture now to buy the horse,Following the mirror of all Christian kings,With wingèd heels, as English Mercuries.For now sits Expectation in the air,And hides a sword from hilts unto the pointWith crowns imperial, crowns and coronets,Promised to Harry and his followers.The French, advised by good intelligenceOf this most dreadful preparation,Shake in their fear and with pale policySeek to divert the English purposes.O England! model to thy inward greatness,Like little body with a mighty heart,What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do,Were all thy children kind and natural!
Thus with imagined wing our swift scene fliesIn motion of no less celerityThan that of thought. Suppose that you have seenThe well-appointed king at Hampton PierEmbark his royalty; and his brave fleetWith silken streamers the young Phœbus fanning:Play with your fancies, and in them beholdUpon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing;Hear the shrill whistle which doth order giveTo sounds confused; behold the threaden sails,Borne with the invisible and creeping wind,Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea,Breasting the lofty surge: O, do but thinkYou stand upon the rivage and beholdA city on the inconstant billows dancing;For so appears this fleet majestical,Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow:Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy,And leave your England, as dead midnight still,Guarded with grandsires, babies and old women,Either passed or not arrived to pith and puissance;For who is he, whose chin is but enrich’dWith one appearing hair, that will not followThese cull’d and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?
Thus with imagined wing our swift scene fliesIn motion of no less celerityThan that of thought. Suppose that you have seenThe well-appointed king at Hampton PierEmbark his royalty; and his brave fleetWith silken streamers the young Phœbus fanning:Play with your fancies, and in them beholdUpon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing;Hear the shrill whistle which doth order giveTo sounds confused; behold the threaden sails,Borne with the invisible and creeping wind,Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea,Breasting the lofty surge: O, do but thinkYou stand upon the rivage and beholdA city on the inconstant billows dancing;For so appears this fleet majestical,Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow:Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy,And leave your England, as dead midnight still,Guarded with grandsires, babies and old women,Either passed or not arrived to pith and puissance;For who is he, whose chin is but enrich’dWith one appearing hair, that will not followThese cull’d and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?
Thus with imagined wing our swift scene fliesIn motion of no less celerityThan that of thought. Suppose that you have seenThe well-appointed king at Hampton PierEmbark his royalty; and his brave fleetWith silken streamers the young Phœbus fanning:Play with your fancies, and in them beholdUpon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing;Hear the shrill whistle which doth order giveTo sounds confused; behold the threaden sails,Borne with the invisible and creeping wind,Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow’d sea,Breasting the lofty surge: O, do but thinkYou stand upon the rivage and beholdA city on the inconstant billows dancing;For so appears this fleet majestical,Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow:Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy,And leave your England, as dead midnight still,Guarded with grandsires, babies and old women,Either passed or not arrived to pith and puissance;For who is he, whose chin is but enrich’dWith one appearing hair, that will not followThese cull’d and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?
‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;Or close the wall up with our English dead.In peace, there’s nothing so becomes a manAs modest stillness and humility:But when the blast of war blows in our ears,Then imitate the action of the tiger;Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,Disguise fair nature with hard favour’d rage;Then lend the eye a terrible aspèct;Let it pry through the portage of the headLike the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it,As fearfully as doth a galled rockO’er hang and jutty his confounded base,Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,Hold hard the breath and bend up every spiritTo his full height. On, on, you noblest English,Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,Have in these parts from morn till even foughtAnd sheathed their swords for lack of argument:Dishonour not your mothers; now attestThat those whom you call’d fathers did beget you.Be copy now to men of grosser blood,And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen,Whose limbs were made in England, show us hereThe mettle of your pasture; let us swearThat you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;For there is none of you so mean and base,That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot;Follow your spirit, and upon this chargeCry “God for Harry, England, and Saint George!”’
‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;Or close the wall up with our English dead.In peace, there’s nothing so becomes a manAs modest stillness and humility:But when the blast of war blows in our ears,Then imitate the action of the tiger;Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,Disguise fair nature with hard favour’d rage;Then lend the eye a terrible aspèct;Let it pry through the portage of the headLike the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it,As fearfully as doth a galled rockO’er hang and jutty his confounded base,Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,Hold hard the breath and bend up every spiritTo his full height. On, on, you noblest English,Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,Have in these parts from morn till even foughtAnd sheathed their swords for lack of argument:Dishonour not your mothers; now attestThat those whom you call’d fathers did beget you.Be copy now to men of grosser blood,And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen,Whose limbs were made in England, show us hereThe mettle of your pasture; let us swearThat you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;For there is none of you so mean and base,That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot;Follow your spirit, and upon this chargeCry “God for Harry, England, and Saint George!”’
‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;Or close the wall up with our English dead.In peace, there’s nothing so becomes a manAs modest stillness and humility:But when the blast of war blows in our ears,Then imitate the action of the tiger;Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,Disguise fair nature with hard favour’d rage;Then lend the eye a terrible aspèct;Let it pry through the portage of the headLike the brass cannon; let the brow o’erwhelm it,As fearfully as doth a galled rockO’er hang and jutty his confounded base,Swill’d with the wild and wasteful ocean.Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,Hold hard the breath and bend up every spiritTo his full height. On, on, you noblest English,Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,Have in these parts from morn till even foughtAnd sheathed their swords for lack of argument:Dishonour not your mothers; now attestThat those whom you call’d fathers did beget you.Be copy now to men of grosser blood,And teach them how to war. And you, good yeomen,Whose limbs were made in England, show us hereThe mettle of your pasture; let us swearThat you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;For there is none of you so mean and base,That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,Straining upon the start. The game’s afoot;Follow your spirit, and upon this chargeCry “God for Harry, England, and Saint George!”’
Now entertain conjecture of a timeWhen creeping murmur and the poring darkFills the wide vessel of the universe.From camp to camp through the foul womb of nightThe hum of either army stilly sounds,That the fix’d sentinels almost receiveThe secret whispers of each other’s watch:Fire answers fire, and through their paly flamesEach battle sees the other’s umbered face;Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighsPiercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tentsThe armourers, accomplishing the knights,With busy hammers closing rivets up,Give dreadful note of preparation:The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,And the third hour of drowsy morning name.Proud of their numbers and secure in soul,The confident and over-lusty FrenchDo the low-rated English play at dice;And chide the cripple, tardy-gaited nightWho, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limpSo tediously away. The poor condemned English,Like sacrifices, by their watchful firesSit patiently and inly ruminateThe morning’s danger, and their gesture sadInvesting lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats,Presenteth them unto the gazing moonSo many horrid ghosts. O now, who will beholdThe royal captain of this ruin’d bandWalking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,Let him cry ‘Praise and glory on his head!’For forth he goes and visits all his host,Bids them good morrow with a modest smileAnd calls them brothers, friends and countrymen.Upon his royal face there is no noteHow dread an army hath enrounded him;Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colourUnto the weary and all-watched night,But freshly looks and over-bears attaintWith cheerful semblance and sweet majesty;That every wretch, pining and pale before,Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks:A largess universal like the sunHis liberal eye doth give to everyone,Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle allBehold, as may unworthiness define,A little touch of Harry in the night.And so our scene must to the battle fly.
Now entertain conjecture of a timeWhen creeping murmur and the poring darkFills the wide vessel of the universe.From camp to camp through the foul womb of nightThe hum of either army stilly sounds,That the fix’d sentinels almost receiveThe secret whispers of each other’s watch:Fire answers fire, and through their paly flamesEach battle sees the other’s umbered face;Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighsPiercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tentsThe armourers, accomplishing the knights,With busy hammers closing rivets up,Give dreadful note of preparation:The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,And the third hour of drowsy morning name.Proud of their numbers and secure in soul,The confident and over-lusty FrenchDo the low-rated English play at dice;And chide the cripple, tardy-gaited nightWho, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limpSo tediously away. The poor condemned English,Like sacrifices, by their watchful firesSit patiently and inly ruminateThe morning’s danger, and their gesture sadInvesting lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats,Presenteth them unto the gazing moonSo many horrid ghosts. O now, who will beholdThe royal captain of this ruin’d bandWalking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,Let him cry ‘Praise and glory on his head!’For forth he goes and visits all his host,Bids them good morrow with a modest smileAnd calls them brothers, friends and countrymen.Upon his royal face there is no noteHow dread an army hath enrounded him;Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colourUnto the weary and all-watched night,But freshly looks and over-bears attaintWith cheerful semblance and sweet majesty;That every wretch, pining and pale before,Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks:A largess universal like the sunHis liberal eye doth give to everyone,Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle allBehold, as may unworthiness define,A little touch of Harry in the night.And so our scene must to the battle fly.
Now entertain conjecture of a timeWhen creeping murmur and the poring darkFills the wide vessel of the universe.From camp to camp through the foul womb of nightThe hum of either army stilly sounds,That the fix’d sentinels almost receiveThe secret whispers of each other’s watch:Fire answers fire, and through their paly flamesEach battle sees the other’s umbered face;Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighsPiercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tentsThe armourers, accomplishing the knights,With busy hammers closing rivets up,Give dreadful note of preparation:The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,And the third hour of drowsy morning name.Proud of their numbers and secure in soul,The confident and over-lusty FrenchDo the low-rated English play at dice;And chide the cripple, tardy-gaited nightWho, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limpSo tediously away. The poor condemned English,Like sacrifices, by their watchful firesSit patiently and inly ruminateThe morning’s danger, and their gesture sadInvesting lank-lean cheeks and war-worn coats,Presenteth them unto the gazing moonSo many horrid ghosts. O now, who will beholdThe royal captain of this ruin’d bandWalking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,Let him cry ‘Praise and glory on his head!’For forth he goes and visits all his host,Bids them good morrow with a modest smileAnd calls them brothers, friends and countrymen.Upon his royal face there is no noteHow dread an army hath enrounded him;Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colourUnto the weary and all-watched night,But freshly looks and over-bears attaintWith cheerful semblance and sweet majesty;That every wretch, pining and pale before,Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks:A largess universal like the sunHis liberal eye doth give to everyone,Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle allBehold, as may unworthiness define,A little touch of Harry in the night.And so our scene must to the battle fly.
‘O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts;Possess them not with fear; take from them nowThe sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbersPluck their hearts from them. Not to-day, O Lord,O, not to-day, think not upon the faultMy father made in compassing the crown!I Richard’s body have interred new;And on it have bestow’d more contrite tearsThan from it issued forced drops of blood:Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,Who twice a-day their wither’d hands hold upToward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have builtTwo chantries, where the sad and solemn priestsSing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do;Though all that I can do is nothing worth,Since that my penitence comes after all,Imploring pardon.’
‘O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts;Possess them not with fear; take from them nowThe sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbersPluck their hearts from them. Not to-day, O Lord,O, not to-day, think not upon the faultMy father made in compassing the crown!I Richard’s body have interred new;And on it have bestow’d more contrite tearsThan from it issued forced drops of blood:Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,Who twice a-day their wither’d hands hold upToward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have builtTwo chantries, where the sad and solemn priestsSing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do;Though all that I can do is nothing worth,Since that my penitence comes after all,Imploring pardon.’
‘O God of battles! steel my soldiers’ hearts;Possess them not with fear; take from them nowThe sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbersPluck their hearts from them. Not to-day, O Lord,O, not to-day, think not upon the faultMy father made in compassing the crown!I Richard’s body have interred new;And on it have bestow’d more contrite tearsThan from it issued forced drops of blood:Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,Who twice a-day their wither’d hands hold upToward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have builtTwo chantries, where the sad and solemn priestsSing still for Richard’s soul. More will I do;Though all that I can do is nothing worth,Since that my penitence comes after all,Imploring pardon.’
‘This day is called the feast of Crispian:He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,And rouse him at the name of Crispian.He that shall live this day, and see old age,Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,And say ‘To-morrow is saint Crispian:’Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,But he’ll remember with advantagesWhat feats he did that day: then shall our names,Familiar in his mouth as household words,Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.This story shall the good man teach his son;And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,From this day to the ending of the world,But we in it shall be remembered;And gentlemen in England now abed,Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaksThat fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.’
‘This day is called the feast of Crispian:He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,And rouse him at the name of Crispian.He that shall live this day, and see old age,Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,And say ‘To-morrow is saint Crispian:’Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,But he’ll remember with advantagesWhat feats he did that day: then shall our names,Familiar in his mouth as household words,Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.This story shall the good man teach his son;And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,From this day to the ending of the world,But we in it shall be remembered;And gentlemen in England now abed,Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaksThat fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.’
‘This day is called the feast of Crispian:He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,And rouse him at the name of Crispian.He that shall live this day, and see old age,Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,And say ‘To-morrow is saint Crispian:’Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,But he’ll remember with advantagesWhat feats he did that day: then shall our names,Familiar in his mouth as household words,Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.This story shall the good man teach his son;And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,From this day to the ending of the world,But we in it shall be remembered;And gentlemen in England now abed,Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaksThat fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.’
Now we bear the kingToward Calais: grant him there; there seen,Heave him away upon your winged thoughtsAthwart the sea. Behold, the English beachPales in the flood with men, with wives and boys,Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth’d sea,Which like a mighty whiffler ’fore the kingSeems to prepare his way: so let him land,And solemnly see him set on to London.So swift a pace hath thought that even nowYou may imagine him upon Blackheath,Where that his lords desire him to have borneHis bruisèd helmet and his bended swordBefore him through the city: he forbids it,Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride,Giving full trophy, signal and ostentQuite from himself to God. But now behold,In the quick forge and working-house of thought,How London doth pour out her citizens!The mayor and all his brethren in best sort,Like to the senators of the antique Rome,With the plebeians swarming at their heels,Go forth and fetch their conquering Cæsar in.William Shakespeare.
Now we bear the kingToward Calais: grant him there; there seen,Heave him away upon your winged thoughtsAthwart the sea. Behold, the English beachPales in the flood with men, with wives and boys,Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth’d sea,Which like a mighty whiffler ’fore the kingSeems to prepare his way: so let him land,And solemnly see him set on to London.So swift a pace hath thought that even nowYou may imagine him upon Blackheath,Where that his lords desire him to have borneHis bruisèd helmet and his bended swordBefore him through the city: he forbids it,Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride,Giving full trophy, signal and ostentQuite from himself to God. But now behold,In the quick forge and working-house of thought,How London doth pour out her citizens!The mayor and all his brethren in best sort,Like to the senators of the antique Rome,With the plebeians swarming at their heels,Go forth and fetch their conquering Cæsar in.William Shakespeare.
Now we bear the kingToward Calais: grant him there; there seen,Heave him away upon your winged thoughtsAthwart the sea. Behold, the English beachPales in the flood with men, with wives and boys,Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth’d sea,Which like a mighty whiffler ’fore the kingSeems to prepare his way: so let him land,And solemnly see him set on to London.So swift a pace hath thought that even nowYou may imagine him upon Blackheath,Where that his lords desire him to have borneHis bruisèd helmet and his bended swordBefore him through the city: he forbids it,Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride,Giving full trophy, signal and ostentQuite from himself to God. But now behold,In the quick forge and working-house of thought,How London doth pour out her citizens!The mayor and all his brethren in best sort,Like to the senators of the antique Rome,With the plebeians swarming at their heels,Go forth and fetch their conquering Cæsar in.
William Shakespeare.
‘Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tearIn all my miseries; but thou hast forced meOut 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 mentionOf 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 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 that ruin’d 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 it?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 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: my robe,And my integrity to heaven, is allI dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!Had I but served my God with half the zealI served my king, he would not in mine ageHave left me naked to mine enemies.’William Shakespeare.
‘Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tearIn all my miseries; but thou hast forced meOut 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 mentionOf 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 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 that ruin’d 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 it?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 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: my robe,And my integrity to heaven, is allI dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!Had I but served my God with half the zealI served my king, he would not in mine ageHave left me naked to mine enemies.’William Shakespeare.
‘Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tearIn all my miseries; but thou hast forced meOut 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 mentionOf 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 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 that ruin’d 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 it?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 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: my robe,And my integrity to heaven, is allI dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!Had I but served my God with half the zealI served my king, he would not in mine ageHave left me naked to mine enemies.’
William Shakespeare.