Unto the frowning judge? or who pronounc'd To threaten me with death is moft unlawful. 1 Vil. What we will do, we do upon command. Take heed for he holds vengeance in his hand, 2 Vil. And that fame vengeance doth he hurl on thee For falfe forfwearing, and for murder too : Thou didst receive the facrament, to fight In quarrel of the Houfe of Lancaster. i Vil. And, like a traitor to the name of God, Didit break that vow; and with thy treach'rous blade Unrip'dit the bowels of thy Sovereign's fon. 2 Vil. Whom thou wert fworn to cherish and defend. 1 Vil. How canft thou urge God's dreadful law to us, When thou haft broke it in fuch high degree? Clar. Alas! for whofe fake did I that ill deed? He fends you not to murder me for this, If God will be avenged for the deed, 1 Vil. Who made thee then a bloody minifter, N Clar. Clar. If you do love my brother, hate not me: 2 Vil. You are deceiv'd, your brother Glo'fter hates you. Both. Ay, fo we will. Clar. Tell him, when that our princely father York 1 Vil. Ay, millftones; as he leffon'd us to weep. 1 Vil. As fnow in harveft.-You deceive yourself; Clar. It cannot be; for he bewept my fortune, 1 Vil. Why fo he doth, when he delivers you 2 Vil. Make peace with God, for you must die, my Clar. Have you that holy feeling in your foul, Clar. Relent, and fave your fouls. If two fuch murderers as yourselves came to you, 1 Vil. Relent! "Tis cowardly and womanish. My friend, I fpy fome pity in thy looks: f thine eye be not a flatterer, e thou on my fide, and intreat for me. gging Prince what beggar pities not ? Vil. Look behind you, my Lord. Vil. Take that, and that; if all this will not do, rown you in the malmfy-butt within. [Stabs him. [Exit. Vil. A bloody deed, and defperately difpatch'd. ow fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands his most grievous guilty murder! Re-enter firft Villain. Vil, How now? what mean'ft thou, that thou help'st me not.? Heaven, the Duke shall know how flack you've been. Vil. I would he knew, that I had fav'd his brother! e thou the fee, and tell him what I say; I repent me that the Duke is flain. Vil. So do not I. Go, coward as thou art. [Exit. [Exit. No. XV.-KING HENRY VIII. ACT III. SCENE II. Wolfey alone, WOLSEY. farewel to the little good you bear me. ewel, a long farewel to all my greatness! is is the ftate of man: To-day he puts forth e tender leaves of hope; to-morrow bloffoms, d bears his blufhing honours thick upon him : e third day comes a froft, a killing froft; d when he thinks, good eafy man, full furely greatnefs is a ripening, nips his root; d then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, ke little wanton boys that fwim on bladders, N 2. Thefe Thefe many fummers in a fea of glory, But far beyond my depth; my high-blown pride More pangs and fears than war or women have; And, when he falls, he falls, like Lucifer, Never to hope again. Enter Cromwell, ftanding amazed. Why, how now, Cromwell? Crom. I have no power to speak, Sir. At my misfortunes? Can thy fpirit wonder Crom. How does your Grace ? Wol. Why well; Never fo truly happy, my good Cromwell. A till and quiet confcience. The King has cur'd me, A load would fink a navy-too much honour. O, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden 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 miferies, and greater far, Crom. The heavieft, and the worst, Cram 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' favour, and do juftice Crom. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome; Wol. That's news, indeed. Crom. Lait, that the Lady Anne, Whom the King hath in fecrecy long married, Only about her Coronation. Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down. O The King has gone beyond me; all my glories No fun fhall ever usher forth my honours, Upon my fmiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell; To be thy lord and master. Seek the King. I know his noble nature, not to let Thy hopeful fervice perish too. Good Cromwell, Crom. O, my Lord, Muft I then leave you? muft I needs forego |