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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
The work; for 'tis the evening crowns the day.
This action of our death especially

Shows all a man. Here only is he found.
With what munition he did fortify

His heart; how good his furniture hath been.
And this did he perform in gallant wise:
In this did he confirm his worthiness.

For on the morrow, after the surprise
That sickness made on him with fierce access,
He told his faithful friend, whom he held dear,
(And whose great worth was worthy so to be,)
"How that he knew these hot diseases were

Of that contagious force, as he did see
That men were over-tumbl'd suddenly;
And therefore did desire to set a course
And order this affairs as speedily

As might be, ere his sickness should grow worse.
And as for death," said he, "I do not wey;

I am resolv'd and ready in this case.
It cannot come t'affright me any way;
Let it look never with so grim a face:
And I will meet it smiling; for I know
How vain a thing all this world's glory is."
And herein did he keep his word: Did show
Indeed, as he had promised in this.

For sickness never heard him groan at all,
Nor with a sigh consent to show his pain;

THE CLOSING SCENE.

Which, howsoever, being tyrannical,
He sweetly made it look; and did retain
A lovely count'nance of his being well,
And so would ever make his tongue to tell.

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;
For having dedicated still the same

Unto devotion, and to sacred skill,

That furnish perfect held; that blessed flame
Continued to the last in fervour still.

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
Upon the merits of the precious death.
Of his Redeemer; and with rapt desires
Th' appeals to grace, his soul delivereth
Into the hand of mercy, and expires.
Thus did that Worthy, who most virtuously,
Most mildly liv'd, most sweet and mildly die.

Samuel Daniel.

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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:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

THE DIRGE OF THE FAMOUS.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ;
Care no more to clothe, and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:

The Sceptre, Learning, Physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash,
Thou hast finish'd joy and moan.
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!

Nor no witchcraft charm thee!

Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have,
And renowned be thy grave.

William Shakespere.

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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,-when I am forgotten, as I shall be;

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of 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: cherish those hearts that wait 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 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
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

Shakespere.

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