THE CLOSING SCENE. BUT let it now sufficient be, that I The last scene of his act of life bewray, Which gives th' applause to all, doth glorify Shows all a man. Here only is he found. His heart; how good his furniture hath been. For on the morrow, after the surprise Of that contagious force, as he did see As might be, ere his sickness should grow worse. I am resolv'd and ready in this case. For sickness never heard him groan at all, THE CLOSING SCENE. Which, howsoever, being tyrannical, Although the fervour of extremity, Which often doth throw those defences down, Which in our health wall in infirmity, Might open lay more than we would have known; Yet did no idle word in him bewray Any one piece of Nature ill set in; Those lightnesses that anything will say, Could say no ill of what they knew within. Such a sure lock of silent modesty Was set in life upon that noble heart, As if no anguish nor extremity Could open it, t' impair that worthy part; Unto devotion, and to sacred skill, That furnish perfect held; that blessed flame And when his spirit and tongue no longer could Do any certain services beside, Ev'n at the point of parting they unfold, With fervent zeal, how only he rely'd Samuel Daniel. FEAR no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: THE DIRGE OF THE FAMOUS. Fear no more the frown o' the great, The Sceptre, Learning, Physic, must Fear no more the lightning-flash, No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee! Ghost unlaid forbear thee! William Shakespere. WOLSEY'S WARNING. CROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let's dry our tears and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not : 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 all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell! Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal I serv'd my king, he would not in mine age Shakespere. |