Wol.-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 ; 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 ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This 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 this world, I hate ye: I feel my heart new open'd. O how wretched

a

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Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours !
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More
pangs

and fears than war or women have :
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

Enter Cromwell, and stands amazed. Why, how now, Cromwell!

Crom.--I have no power to speak, sir.

Wol.-What, amazed
At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline ?
Nay, an you weep, I am fall’n 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 still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me, I humbly thank his Grace; and, from these shoulders, These ruined pillars, out of pity, taken A load would sink a navy, too much honour : Oh, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven! Go get thee from me, Cromwell ; I am a poor fall’n man, unworthy now To be thy lord and master : Seek the King,

I

pray, may never set; I have told him What, and how true thou art : he will advance thee;

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That sun,

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.

Crom.-0 my Lord,
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.-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 no mention Of me more must be heard, 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 missed it. Mark but my fall, and that which ruined 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 fallist 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 all
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my King, Ile would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

20

Sin HENRY WOTTON.-Born, 1568; Died, 1639.

Wotton was born in Kent, and was secretary to the Earl of Kent, but foreseeing his fall, left England. He returned on the accession of James I., and was sent as Ambassador to Venice. In his later years he took Deacon's Orders, and was Provost of Eton.

THE HAPPY LIFE.

IIow happy is he born and taught,
That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his utmost skill !
Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the worldly care
Of public fame or private breath;

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Who envies none that chance doth raise,
Or vice :-who never understood
How deepest wounds are given by praise :
Nor rules of state, but rules of good;
Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who God doth late and early pray,
More of His grace than gifts to lend;
And entertains the harmless day
With a religious book or friend :
This man is freed from servile? bands
. Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And, having nothing, yet hath all.

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BEN JONSON, born, 1574; died, 1637. Ben Jonson was well-born, but his mother, being left a widow, married a bricklayer. He was sent by a friend to Cambridge, but had to return and take to his father-in-law's trade. Disliking this, he joined the army, then fighting in Flanders, and finally came back to London and took to literature. His dramas are marked by a severe and strong imagination and high dramatic power.

HYMN TO THE MOON.
QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,

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