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Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him

So little of his great self.
Sur.
I forgive him.
[Suf. Lord cardinal, the king's further
pleasure is,

Because all those things you have done of late,
By your power legatine," within this kingdom,
Fall into the compass of a præmunire,— 340
That therefore such a writ be su'd against you;
To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements,
Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be
Out of the king's protection. This is my charge.]
Nor. And so we 'll leave you to your medi-
tations

How to live better. For your stubborn answer
About the giving back the great seal to us,
The king shall know it, and, no doubt, shall
thank you.

318

So fare you well, my little good lord cardinal. [Exeunt all except Wolsey.

Wol. So farewell to the little good you bear

me.

Farewell! a long farewell to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,

And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;

t

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory;
360
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 this world, I hate ye:
I feel my heart new open'd. O how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspéct of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women
have;

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

2 Power legatine, i.e. power as legate.

370

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437

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

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