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The king-has gone beyond me;-all my glories-
In that one-woman-I have lost-for ever:
No sun-shall ever-usher forth-mine honors,—
Or gild (again)—the noble troops-th't waited
Upon my smiles. Go! get thee-from me, Cromwell; '
I-am a poor-fallen man,-unworthy—(now)

To be thy lord-and master: seek the king;

(That sun,-I pray,—may never set!) I have told him— What-and how true thou art: he-will advance thee; 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.

O my lord!

Must I-then-leave you? must I needs forego• So good,—so noble,—and so true a master ?

Bear witness,—all—th't 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 of, say,-I taught thee;-
Say-Wolsey,-(th't once-trod—the ways of glory,—
And sounded-all the depths—and shoals of honor,)—
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—that 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 't?
Love thyself-last; cherish-those hearts-th't 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 1) 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;) 't is 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,-he-would not (in mine age)—
Have left me- —(naked)—to mine enemies!

So-I have.

Farewell

Crom. Good sir,-have patience.
Wol.
The hopes-of court! my hopes-(in heaven) do dwell.

XXIV.-OTHELLO'S APOLOGY. SHAKESPEARE.

Duke. Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you— Against the general enemy Ottoman.

I did not see you; welcome gentle signior:

[To Brabantio.

We lack'd your counsel-and your help-to-night.

Brabantio. So did I-yours. Good your grace, pardon me;

Neither my place, nor aught—I heard of business,—

Hath raised me—from my bed; nor-doth the general care
Take hold on me; for my particular grief—
Is of so flood-gate-and o'erbearing nature—
Th't it engluts—and swallows-other sorrows,
And it is still-itself.

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She is abused, stoľ'n from me,—and corrupted—
By spells-and medicines-bought of mountebanks;
For nature-so preposterously to err,

Being not deficient,—blind,— —or lame of sense,—
Sans witchcraft-could not-

Duke. Whoe'er he be th't (in this foul proceeding)
Hath thus beguiled your daughter-of herself,-
And you-of her, the bloody book of law-
You shall yourself read—in the bitter letter,
After your own sense: yea, though our proper son
Stood in your action.

Bra.

Humbly-I thank your grace.

Here is the man, this Moor; whom now,—(it seems,)

Your special mandate, (for the state affairs,)

Hath hither brought.

Duke and Sen. We are very sorry for it.

Duke. What (in your own part) can you say to this?
Bra. Nothing, but this-is so.

Othello. Most potent,—grave, and reverend signiors,

My very noble—and approved-good masters,—

Th't I have ta'en away-this old man's daughter—

It is most true; true-I have married her:

The very head-and front-of my offending—

Hath this-extent,—no more. Rude am I-in my speech,
And little bless'd-with the soft phrase of peace;
For-since these arms of mine-had seven years' pith,

[Exeunt.

[To Othello.

(Till now some nine moons wasted,) they have used
Their dearest action-in the tented field;

And little of this great world—can I speak-
More-than pertains to feats-of broil—and battle;
And-(therefore) little-shall I grace my cause-

In speaking-for myself. Yet, (by your gracious patience,)

I will a round—unvarnish'd tale deliver

Of my whole course of love; what drugs,—what charms,
What conjuration,-and what mighty magic,
(For such proceeding-I am charged withal,)
I won-his daughter with.

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Of spirit-so still-and quiet-th't her motion
Blush'd at herself; and she,—(in spite of nature,
Of years, of country,—credit,—every thing,)—
To fall in love with what she fear'd-to look on!
It is a judgment—maim'd—and most imperfect
Th't will confess-perfection—so—could err—
Against all rules of nature; and must be driven→
To find out practices-of cunning hell,

Why this should be. I therefore-vouch again
Th't with some mixtures—(powerful-o'er the blood,)
Or with some dram-conjured-to this effect,
He wrought upon her.

Duke.
To vouch this-is no proof,
Without more wider-and more overt test-
Than these-thin habits, and poor likelihoods
Of modern seeming,-do prefer against him.
Sen.
But,-Othello,-speak :-
Did you,-(by indirect—and forced courses,)
Subdue-and poison-this young maid's affections?
Or-came it-by request, and such fair question-
As soul to soul-affordeth?

Oth.

I do beseech you

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Oth. Ancient,-conduct them; you-best know the place.

And-till she come, as truly-as to heaven-
I do confess the vices-of my blood,-
So justly to your grave ears-I'll present-
How I did thrive-in this fair lady's love,
And she-in mine.

Duke.

Say it,-Othello.

[Exeunt Iago, etc.

Oth. Her father-loved me; oft invited me;
Still-questioned me—the story-of my life,

From year to year ;—the battles,—sieges,—fortunes,—
Th't I have pass'd.

I ran it through,—even-from my boyish days,—

To the very moment-th't he bade me tell it.
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances;—

Of moving accidents-by flood-and field;

Of hair-breadth 'scapes-i' the imminent deadly breach;

Of being taken-by the insolent foe

And sold to slavery;—of my redemption thence,

And portance. In my traveler's history,

(Wherein of antres vast-and deserts idle,

Rough quarries,―rocks,—and hills-whose heads-touch heaven,

It was my hint to speak,)—such—was my process;

And of the Cannibals-that each other eat,

The Anthropophagi,—and men-whose heads

Do grow-beneath their shoulders. These things to hear-
Would Desdemona-seriously-incline:

But still the house affairs-would draw her thence;
Which-ever-as she could with haste-dispatch—
She'd come again,-and-(with a greedy ear)
Devour up my discourse: which—I—(observing,)
Took-once-a pliant hour; and found good means—
To draw from her—a prayer—(of earnest heart)—
That I would all my pilgrimage-dilate,
Whereof by parcels-she had something heard,
But not intentively: I did consent,

And often-did beguile her—of her tears,

When I did speak-of some distressful stroke-
That my youth suffer'd. My story-being done,
She gave me for my pains—a world of sighs:

She swore,-In faith, 't was strange, 't was passing strange;
"T was pitiful,-'t was wondrous—pitiful:

She wish'd-she had not heard it; yet—she wish'd—

Th't Heaven-had made her-such a man: she thank'd me;

And bade me,-if I had a friend—that loved her,

I should but teach him-how to tell my story

And that would woo her. Upon this hint-I spake:

She loved me-for the dangers I had pass'd;
And I-loved her-th't she did pity them.
This-only-is the witchcraft-I have used.
Here comes the lady,-let her-witness it.

[Enter Desdemona, Iago, and attendants.

Duke. I think-this tale-would win my daughter too.

Good Brabantio,—

Take up-this mangled matter—at the best:
Men-do their broken weapons-rather use—
Than their bare hands.

Bra. I pray you—hear her speak;
If she confess-that she was half the wooer,
Destruction-on my head,-if my bad blame

Light on the man! Come hither, (gentle mistress :)
Do you perceive (in all—this noble company)

Where most-you owe obedience?

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I do perceive-here—a divided duty:

To you I am bound-for life,-and education;
My life and education--both do learn me-

How-to respect you; you-are the lord-of duty ;—

—(hitherto)—your daughter: But-here's-my husband;

I am

And so much duty—as my mother—show'd

To you, (preferring you-before her father,)
So much I challenge-that I-may profess
Due to the Moor, my lord.

Bra.

God-be with you!—I have done.

Please it-your grace,-on-to the state affairs:
I had rather to adopt a child-than get it.—
Come hither, Moor:

I here-do give thee that—(with all my heart)

Which,-(but thou hast-already,) with all my heart-
I would keep from thee. For your sake,―(jewel,)—

I am glad at soul-I have no other child;

For thy escape-would teach me tyranny,

To hang clogs on them. I have done,—my lord.

Duke. Let me speak-like yourself, and lay a sentence-
Which, (as a grise, or step,)—may help these lovers.
When remedies-are past,-the griefs—are ended,

By seeing the worst,—which late-on hopes-depended.
To mourn a mischief-th't is past-and gone

Is the next way-to draw new mischief on.

What can not be preserved—when fortune takes,—
Patience her injury—a mockery-makes.

The robb'd—that smiles steals something-from the thief;
He-robs himself-th't spends a bootless grief.

XXV.-CLARENCE'S DREAM. SHAKESPEARE.

Brakenbury. Why looks your grace-so heavily-to-day?
Clarence. Oh! I have passed-a miserable night,

So full of ugly sights,-of ghastly dreams,

That,-(as I am a Christian-faithful man,)

I would not spend-another such a night,

Though 't were to buy a world-of happy days;—

So full-of dismal terror-was the time!

Brak. What was your dream, my lord? I pray you tell me. Clar. Methought-th't I had broken from the Tower,

And was embark'd-to cross to Burgundy;

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