Latest revision as of 10:42, 6 January 2025

¶1 — The present publication is intended to supply a recognised deficiency in our literature—a library edition of the Essays of Montaigne. This great French writer deserves to be regarded as a classic, not only in the land of his birth, but in all countries and in all literatures. His Essays, which are at once the most celebrated and the most permanent of his productions, form a magazine out of which such minds as those of Bacon and Shakespeare did not disdain to help themselves; and, indeed, as Hallam observes, the Frenchman’s literary importance largely results from the share which his mind had in influencing other minds, coeval and subsequent. But, at the same time, estimating the value and rank of the essayist, we are not to leave out of the account the drawbacks and the circumstances of the period: the imperfect state of education, the comparative scarcity of books, and the limited opportunities of intellectual intercourse. Montaigne freely borrowed of others, and he has found men willing to borrow of him as freely. We need not wonder at the reputation which he with seeming facility achieved. He was, without being aware of it, the leader of a new school in letters and morals. His book was different from all others which were at that date in the world. It diverted the ancient currents of thought into new channels. It told its readers, with unexampled frankness, what its writer’s opinion was about men and things, and threw what must have been a strange kind of new light on many matters but darkly understood. Above all, the essayist uncased himself, and made his intellectual and physical organism public property. He took the world into his confidence on all subjects. His essays were a sort of literary anatomy, where we get a diagnosis of the writer’s mind, made by himself at different levels and under a large variety of operating influences.

¶2 — Of all egotists, Montaigne, if not the greatest, was the most fascinating, because, perhaps, he was the least affected and most truthful. What he did, and what he had professed to do, was to dissect his mind, and show us, as best he could, how it was made, and what relation it bore to external objects. He investigated his mental structure as a schoolboy pulls his watch to pieces, to examine the mechanism of the works; and the result, accompanied by illustrations abounding with originality and force, he delivered to his fellow-men in a book.

¶3 — Eloquence, rhetorical effect, poetry, were alike remote from his design. He did not write from necessity, scarcely perhaps for fame. But he desired to leave France, nay, and the world, something to be remembered by, something which should tell what kind of a man he was—what he felt, thought, suffered—and he succeeded immeasurably, I apprehend, beyond his expectations.

¶4 — It was reasonable enough that Montaigne should expect for his work a certain share of celebrity in Gascony, and even, as time went on, throughout France; but it is scarcely probable that he foresaw how his renown was to become world-wide; how he was to occupy an almost unique position as a man of letters and a moralist; how the Essays would be read, in all the principal languages of Europe, by millions of intelligent human beings, who never heard of Perigord or the League, and who are in doubt, if they are questioned, whether the author lived in the sixteenth or the eighteenth century. This is true fame. A man of genius belongs to no period and no country. He speaks the language of nature, which is always everywhere the same.

¶5 — The text of these volumes is taken from the first edition of Cotton’s version, printed in 3 vols. 8vo, 1685-6, and republished in 1693, 1700, 1711, 1738, and 1743, in the same number of volumes and the same size. In the earliest impression the errors of the press are corrected merely as far as page 240 of the first volume, and all the editions follow one another. That of 1685-6 was the only one which the translator lived to see. He died in 1687, leaving behind him an interesting and little-known collection of poems, which appeared posthumously, 8vo, 1689.

¶6 — It was considered imperative to correct Cotton’s translation by a careful collation with the ‘variorum’ edition of the original, Paris, 1854, 4 vols. 8vo or 12mo, and parallel passages from Florin’s earlier undertaking have occasionally been inserted at the foot of the page. A Life of the Author and all his recovered Letters, sixteen in number, have also been given; but, as regards the correspondence, it can scarcely be doubted that it is in a purely fragmentary state. To do more than furnish a sketch of the leading incidents in Montaigne’s life seemed, in the presence of Bayle St. John’s charming and able biography, an attempt as difficult as it was useless.

¶7 — The besetting sin of both Montaigne’s translators seems to have been a propensity for reducing his language and phraseology to the language and phraseology of the age and country to which they belonged, and, moreover, inserting paragraphs and words, not here and there only, but constantly and habitually, from an evident desire and view to elucidate or strengthen their author’s meaning. The result has generally been unfortunate; and I have, in the case of all these interpolations on Cotton’s part, felt bound, where I did not cancel them, to throw them down into the notes, not thinking it right that Montaigne should be allowed any longer to stand sponsor for what he never wrote; and reluctant, on the other hand, to suppress the intruding matter entirely, where it appeared to possess a value of its own.

¶8 — Nor is redundancy or paraphrase the only form of transgression in Cotton, for there are places in his author which he thought proper to omit, and it is hardly necessary to say that the restoration of all such matter to the text was considered essential to its integrity and completeness.

¶9 — My warmest thanks are due to my father, Mr Registrar Hazlitt, the author of the well-known and excellent edition of Montaigne published in 1842, for the important assistance which he has rendered to me in verifying and retranslating the quotations, which were in a most corrupt state, and of which Cotton’s English versions were singularly loose and inexact, and for the zeal with which he has co-operated with me in collating the English text, line for line and word for word, with the best French edition.

¶10 — By the favour of Mr F. W. Cosens, I have had by me, while at work on this subject, the copy of Cotgrave’s Dictionary, folio, 1650, which belonged to Cotton. It has his autograph and copious MSS. notes, nor is it too much to presume that it is the very book employed by him in his translation.

¶11 — W. C. H.

¶12 — Kensington, November 1877.

The Life of Montaigne

¶1 — [This is translated freely from that prefixed to the ‘variorum’ Paris edition, 1854, 4 vols. 8vo. This biography is the more desirable that it contains all really interesting and important matter in the journal of the Tour in Germany and Italy, which, as it was merely written under Montaigne’s dictation, is in the third person, is scarcely worth publication, as a whole, in an English dress.]

¶2 — The author of the Essays was born, as he informs us himself, between eleven and twelve o’clock in the day, the last of February 1533, at the chateau of St. Michel de Montaigne. His father, Pierre Eyquem, esquire, was successively first Jurat of the town of Bordeaux (1530), Under-Mayor 1536, Jurat for the second time in 1540, Procureur in 1546, and at length Mayor from 1553 to 1556. He was a man of austere probity, who had “a particular regard for honour and for propriety in his person and attire . . . a mighty good faith in his speech, and a conscience and a religious feeling inclining to superstition, rather than to the other extreme."[Essays, ii. 2.] Pierre Eyquem bestowed great care on the education of his children, especially on the practical side of it. To associate closely his son Michel with the people, and attach him to those who stand in need of assistance, he caused him to be held at the font by persons of meanest position; subsequently he put him out to nurse with a poor villager, and then, at a later period, made him accustom himself to the most common sort of living, taking care, nevertheless, to cultivate his mind, and superintend its development without the exercise of undue rigour or constraint. Michel, who gives us the minutest account of his earliest years, charmingly narrates how they used to awake him by the sound of some agreeable music, and how he learned Latin, without suffering the rod or shedding a tear, before beginning French, thanks to the German teacher whom his father had placed near him, and who never addressed him except in the language of Virgil and Cicero. The study of Greek took precedence. At six years of age young Montaigne went to the College of Guienne at Bordeaux, where he had as preceptors the most eminent scholars of the sixteenth century, Nicolas Grouchy, Guerente, Muret, and Buchanan. At thirteen he had passed through all the classes, and as he was destined for the law he left school to study that science. He was then about fourteen, but these early years of his life are involved in obscurity. The next information that we have is that in 1554 he received the appointment of councillor in the Parliament of Bordeaux; in 1559 he was at Bar-le-Duc with the court of Francis II, and in the year following he was present at Rouen to witness the declaration of the majority of Charles IX. We do not know in what manner he was engaged on these occasions.

¶3 — Between 1556 and 1563 an important incident occurred in the life of Montaigne, in the commencement of his romantic friendship with Etienne de la Boetie, whom he had met, as he tells us, by pure chance at some festive celebration in the town. From their very first interview the two found themselves drawn irresistibly close to one another, and during six years this alliance was foremost in the heart of Montaigne, as it was afterwards in his memory, when death had severed it.

¶4 — Although he blames severely in his own book [Essays, i. 27.] those who, contrary to the opinion of Aristotle, marry before five-and-thirty, Montaigne did not wait for the period fixed by the philosopher of Stagyra, but in 1566, in his thirty-third year, he espoused Francoise de Chassaigne, daughter of a councillor in the Parliament of Bordeaux. The history of his early married life vies in obscurity with that of his youth. His biographers are not agreed among themselves; and in the same degree that he lays open to our view all that concerns his secret thoughts, the innermost mechanism of his mind, he observes too much reticence in respect to his public functions and conduct, and his social relations. The title of Gentleman in Ordinary to the King, which he assumes, in a preface, and which Henry II. gives him in a letter, which we print a little farther on; what he says as to the commotions of courts, where he passed a portion of his life; the Instructions which he wrote under the dictation of Catherine de Medici for King Charles IX., and his noble correspondence with Henry IV., leave no doubt, however, as to the part which he played in the transactions of those times, and we find an unanswerable proof of the esteem in which he was held by the most exalted personages, in a letter which was addressed to him by Charles at the time he was admitted to the Order of St. Michael, which was, as he informs us himself, the highest honour of the French noblesse.

¶5 — According to Lacroix du Maine, Montaigne, upon the death of his eldest brother, resigned his post of Councillor, in order to adopt the military profession, while, if we might credit the President Bouhier, he never discharged any functions connected with arms. However, several passages in the Essays seem to indicate that he not only took service, but that he was actually in numerous campaigns with the Catholic armies. Let us add, that on his monument he is represented in a coat of mail, with his casque and gauntlets on his right side, and a lion at his feet, all which signifies, in the language of funeral emblems, that the departed has been engaged in some important military transactions.

¶6 — However it may be as to these conjectures, our author, having arrived at his thirty-eighth year, resolved to dedicate to study and contemplation the remaining term of his life; and on his birthday, the last of February 1571, he caused a philosophical inscription, in Latin, to be placed upon one of the walls of his chateau, where it is still to be seen, and of which the translation is to this effect:—“In the year of Christ . . . in his thirty-eighth year, on the eve of the Calends of March, his birthday, Michel Montaigne, already weary of court employments and public honours, withdrew himself entirely into the converse of the learned virgins where he intends to spend the remaining moiety of the to allotted to him in tranquil seclusion.”

¶7 — At the time to which we have come, Montaigne was unknown to the world of letters, except as a translator and editor. In 1569 he had published a translation of the “Natural Theology” of Raymond de Sebonde, which he had solely undertaken to please his father. In 1571 he had caused to be printed at Paris certain ‘opuscucla’ of Etienne de la Boetie; and these two efforts, inspired in one case by filial duty, and in the other by friendship, prove that affectionate motives overruled with him mere personal ambition as a literary man. We may suppose that he began to compose the Essays at the very outset of his retirement from public engagements; for as, according to his own account, observes the President Bouhier, he cared neither for the chase, nor building, nor gardening, nor agricultural pursuits, and was exclusively occupied with reading and reflection, he devoted himself with satisfaction to the task of setting down his thoughts just as they occurred to him. Those thoughts became a book, and the first part of that book, which was to confer immortality on the writer, appeared at Bordeaux in 1580. Montaigne was then fifty-seven; he had suffered for some years past from renal colic and gravel; and it was with the necessity of distraction from his pain, and the hope of deriving relief from the waters, that he undertook at this time a great journey. As the account which he has left of his travels in Germany and Italy comprises some highly interesting particulars of his life and personal history, it seems worth while to furnish a sketch or analysis of it.

¶8 — “The Journey, of which we proceed to describe the course simply,” says the editor of the Itinerary, “had, from Beaumont-sur-Oise to Plombieres, in Lorraine, nothing sufficiently interesting to detain us . . . we must go as far, as Basle, of which we have a description, acquainting us with its physical and political condition at that period, as well as with the character of its baths. The passage of Montaigne through Switzerland is not without interest, as we see there how our philosophical traveller accommodated himself everywhere to the ways of the country. The hotels, the provisions, the Swiss cookery, everything, was agreeable to him; it appears, indeed, as if he preferred to the French manners and tastes those of the places he was visiting, and of which the simplicity and freedom (or frankness) accorded more with his own mode of life and thinking. In the towns where he stayed, Montaigne took care to see the Protestant divines, to make himself conversant with all their dogmas. He even had disputations with them occasionally.

¶9 — “Having left Switzerland he went to Isne, an imperial then on to Augsburg and Munich. He afterwards proceeded to the Tyrol, where he was agreeably surprised, after the warnings which he had received, at the very slight inconveniences which he suffered, which gave him occasion to remark that he had all his life distrusted the statements of others respecting foreign countries, each person’s tastes being according to the notions of his native place; and that he had consequently set very little on what he was told beforehand.

¶10 — “Upon his arrival at Botzen, Montaigne wrote to Francois Hottmann, to say that he had been so pleased with his visit to Germany that he quitted it with great regret, although it was to go into Italy. He then passed through Brunsol, Trent, where he put up at the Rose; thence going to Rovera; and here he first lamented the scarcity of crawfish, but made up for the loss by partaking of truffles cooked in oil and vinegar; oranges, citrons, and olives, in all of which he delighted.”

¶11 — After passing a restless night, when he bethought himself in the morning that there was some new town or district to be seen, he rose, we are told, with alacrity and pleasure.

¶12 — His secretary, to whom he dictated his Journal, assures us that he never saw him take so much interest in surrounding scenes and persons, and believes that the complete change helped to mitigate his sufferings in concentrating his attention on other points. When there was a complaint made that he had led his party out of the beaten route, and then returned very near the spot from which they started, his answer was that he had no settled course, and that he merely proposed to himself to pay visits to places which he had not seen, and so long as they could not convict him of traversing the same path twice, or revisiting a point already seen, he could perceive no harm in his plan. As to Rome, he cared less to go there, inasmuch as everybody went there; and he said that he never had a lacquey who could not tell him all about Florence or Ferrara. He also would say that he seemed to himself like those who are reading some pleasant story or some fine book, of which they fear to come to the end: he felt so much pleasure in travelling that he dreaded the moment of arrival at the place where they were to stop for the night.

¶13 — We see that Montaigne travelled, just as he wrote, completely at his ease, and without the least constraint, turning, just as he fancied, from the common or ordinary roads taken by tourists. The good inns, the soft beds, the fine views, attracted his notice at every point, and in his observations on men and things he confines himself chiefly to the practical side. The consideration of his health was constantly before him, and it was in consequence of this that, while at Venice, which disappointed him, he took occasion to note, for the benefit of readers, that he had an attack of colic, and that he evacuated two large stones after supper. On quitting Venice, he went in succession to Ferrara, Rovigo, Padua, Bologna (where he had a stomach-ache), Florence, &c.; and everywhere, before alighting, he made it a rule to send some of his servants to ascertain where the best accommodation was to be had. He pronounced the Florentine women the finest in the world, but had not an equally good opinion of the food, which was less plentiful than in Germany, and not so well served. He lets us understand that in Italy they send up dishes without dressing, but in Germany they were much better seasoned, and served with a variety of sauces and gravies. He remarked further, that the glasses were singularly small and the wines insipid.

¶14 — After dining with the Grand-Duke of Florence, Montaigne passed rapidly over the intermediate country, which had no fascination for him, and arrived at Rome on the last day of November, entering by the Porta del Popolo, and putting up at Bear. But he afterwards hired, at twenty crowns a month, fine furnished rooms in the house of a Spaniard, who included in these terms the use of the kitchen fire. What most annoyed him in the Eternal City was the number of Frenchmen he met, who all saluted him in his native tongue; but otherwise he was very comfortable, and his stay extended to five months. A mind like his, full of grand classical reflections, could not fail to be profoundly impressed in the presence of the ruins at Rome, and he has enshrined in a magnificent passage of the Journal the feelings of the moment: “He said,” writes his secretary, “that at Rome one saw nothing but the sky under which she had been built, and the outline of her site: that the knowledge we had of her was abstract, contemplative, not palpable to the actual senses: that those who said they beheld at least the ruins of Rome, went too far, for the ruins of so gigantic a structure must have commanded greater reverence-it was nothing but her sepulchre. The world, jealous of her, prolonged empire, had in the first place broken to pieces that admirable body, and then, when they perceived that the remains attracted worship and awe, had buried the very wreck itself.—[Compare a passage in one of Horace Walpole’s letters to Richard West, 22 March 1740 (Cunningham’s edit. i. 41), where Walpole, speaking of Rome, describes her very ruins as ruined.]—As to those small fragments which were still to be seen on the surface, notwithstanding the assaults of time and all other attacks, again and again repeated, they had been favoured by fortune to be some slight evidence of that infinite grandeur which nothing could entirely extingish. But it was likely that these disfigured remains were the least entitled to attention, and that the enemies of that immortal renown, in their fury, had addressed themselves in the first instance to the destruction of what was most beautiful and worthiest of preservation; and that the buildings of this bastard Rome, raised upon the ancient productions, although they might excite the admiration of the present age, reminded him of the crows’ and sparrows’ nests built in the walls and arches of the old churches, destroyed by the Huguenots. Again, he was apprehensive, seeing the space which this grave occupied, that the whole might not have been recovered, and that the burial itself had been buried. And, moreover, to see a wretched heap of rubbish, as pieces of tile and pottery, grow (as it had ages since) to a height equal to that of Mount Gurson,—[In Perigord.]—and thrice the width of it, appeared to show a conspiracy of destiny against the glory and pre-eminence of that city, affording at the same time a novel and extraordinary proof of its departed greatness. He (Montaigne) observed that it was difficult to believe considering the limited area taken up by any of her seven hills and particularly the two most favoured ones, the Capitoline and the Palatine, that so many buildings stood on the site. Judging only from what is left of the Temple of Concord, along the ‘Forum Romanum’, of which the fall seems quite recent, like that of some huge mountain split into horrible crags, it does not look as if more than two such edifices could have found room on the Capitoline, on which there were at one period from five-and-twenty to thirty temples, besides private dwellings. But, in point of fact, there is scarcely any probability of the views which we take of the city being correct, its plan and form having changed infinitely; for instance, the ‘Velabrum’, which on account of its depressed level, received the sewage of the city, and had a lake, has been raised by artificial accumulation to a height with the other hills, and Mount Savello has, in truth, grown simply out of the ruins of the theatre of Marcellus. He believed that an ancient Roman would not recognise the place again. It often happened that in digging down into earth the workmen came upon the crown of some lofty column, which, though thus buried, was still standing upright. The people there have no recourse to other foundations than the vaults and arches of the old houses, upon which, as on slabs of rock, they raise their modern palaces. It is easy to see that several of the ancient streets are thirty feet below those at present in use.”

¶15 — Sceptical as Montaigne shows himself in his books, yet during his sojourn at Rome he manifested a great regard for religion. He solicited the honour of being admitted to kiss the feet of the Holy Father, Gregory XIII.; and the Pontiff exhorted him always to continue in the devotion which he had hitherto exhibited to the Church and the service of the Most Christian King.

¶16 — “After this, one sees,” says the editor of the Journal, “Montaigne employing all his time in making excursions bout the neighbourhood on horseback or on foot, in visits, in observations of every kind. The churches, the stations, the processions even, the sermons; then the palaces, the vineyards, the gardens, the public amusements, as the Carnival, &c.—nothing was overlooked. He saw a Jewish child circumcised, and wrote down a most minute account of the operation. He met at San Sisto a Muscovite ambassador, the second who had come to Rome since the pontificate of Paul III. This minister had despatches from his court for Venice, addressed to the ‘Grand Governor of the Signory’. The court of Muscovy had at that time such limited relations with the other powers of Europe, and it was so imperfect in its information, that it thought Venice to be a dependency of the Holy See.”

¶17 — Of all the particulars with which he has furnished us during his stay at Rome, the following passage in reference to the Essays is not the least singular: “The Master of the Sacred Palace returned him his Essays, castigated in accordance with the views of the learned monks. ‘He had only been able to form a judgment of them,’ said he, ‘through a certain French monk, not understanding French himself’”—we leave Montaigne himself to tell the story—“and he received so complacently my excuses and explanations on each of the passages which had been animadverted upon by the French monk, that he concluded by leaving me at liberty to revise the text agreeably to the dictates of my own conscience. I begged him, on the contrary, to abide by the opinion of the person who had criticised me, confessing, among other matters, as, for example, in my use of the word fortune, in quoting historical poets, in my apology for Julian, in my animadversion on the theory that he who prayed ought to be exempt from vicious inclinations for the time being; item, in my estimate of cruelty, as something beyond simple death; item, in my view that a child ought to be brought up to do everything, and so on; that these were my opinions, which I did not think wrong; as to other things, I said that the corrector understood not my meaning. The Master, who is a clever man, made many excuses for me, and gave me to suppose that he did not concur in the suggested improvements; and pleaded very ingeniously for me in my presence against another (also an Italian) who opposed my sentiments.”

¶18 — Such is what passed between Montaigne and these two personages at that time; but when the Essayist was leaving, and went to bid them farewell, they used very different language to him. “They prayed me,” says he, “to pay no attention to the censure passed on my book, in which other French persons had apprised them that there were many foolish things; adding, that they honoured my affectionate intention towards the Church, and my capacity; and had so high an opinion of my candour and conscientiousness that they should leave it to me to make such alterations as were proper in the book, when I reprinted it; among other things, the word fortune. To excuse themselves for what they had said against my book, they instanced works of our time by cardinals and other divines of excellent repute which had been blamed for similar faults, which in no way affected reputation of the author, or of the publication as a whole; they requested me to lend the Church the support of my eloquence (this was their fair speech), and to make longer stay in the place, where I should be free from all further intrusion on their part. It seemed to me that we parted very good friends.”

¶19 — Before quitting Rome, Montaigne received his diploma of citizenship, by which he was greatly flattered; and after a visit to Tivoli he set out for Loretto, stopping at Ancona, Fano, and Urbino. He arrived at the beginning of May 1581, at Bagno della Villa, where he established himself, order to try the waters. There, we find in the Journal, of his own accord the Essayist lived in the strictest conformity with the regime, and henceforth we only hear of diet, the effect which the waters had by degrees upon system, of the manner in which he took them; in a word, he does not omit an item of the circumstances connected with his daily routine, his habit of body, his baths, and the rest. It was no longer the journal of a traveller which he kept, but the diary of an invalid,—[“I am reading Montaigne’s Travels, which have lately been found; there is little in them but the baths and medicines he took, and what he had everywhere for dinner.”—H. Walpole to Sir Horace Mann, June 8, 1774.]—attentive to the minutest details of the cure which he was endeavouring to accomplish: a sort of memorandum book, in which he was noting down everything that he felt and did, for the benefit of his medical man at home, who would have the care of his health on his return, and the attendance on his subsequent infirmities. Montaigne gives it as his reason and justification for enlarging to this extent here, that he had omitted, to his regret, to do so in his visits to other baths, which might have saved him the trouble of writing at such great length now; but it is perhaps a better reason in our eyes, that what he wrote he wrote for his own use.

¶20 — We find in these accounts, however, many touches which are valuable as illustrating the manners of the place. The greater part of the entries in the Journal, giving the account of these waters, and of the travels, down to Montaigne’s arrival at the first French town on his homeward route, are in Italian, because he wished to exercise himself in that language.

¶21 — The minute and constant watchfulness of Montaigne over his health and over himself might lead one to suspect that excessive fear of death which degenerates into cowardice. But was it not rather the fear of the operation for the stone, at that time really formidable? Or perhaps he was of the same way of thinking with the Greek poet, of whom Cicero reports this saying: “I do not desire to die; but the thought of being dead is indifferent to me.” Let us hear, however, what he says himself on this point very frankly: “It would be too weak and unmanly on my part if, certain as I am of always finding myself in the position of having to succumb in that way,—[To the stone or gravel.]—and death coming nearer and nearer to me, I did not make some effort, before the time came, to bear the trial with fortitude. For reason prescribes that we should joyfully accept what it may please God to send us. Therefore the only remedy, the only rule, and the sole doctrine for avoiding the evils by which mankind is surrounded, whatever they are, is to resolve to bear them so far as our nature permits, or to put an end to them courageously and promptly.”

¶22 — He was still at the waters of La Villa, when, on the 7th September 1581, he learned by letter that he had been elected Mayor of Bordeaux on the 1st August preceding. This intelligence made him hasten his departure; and from Lucca he proceeded to Rome. He again made some stay in that city, and he there received the letter of the jurats of Bordeaux, notifying to him officially his election to the Mayoralty, and inviting him to return as speedily as possible. He left for France, accompanied by young D’Estissac and several other gentlemen, who escorted him a considerable distance; but none went back to France with him, not even his travelling companion. He passed by Padua, Milan, Mont Cenis, and Chambery; thence he went on to Lyons, and lost no time in repairing to his chateau, after an absence of seventeen months and eight days.

¶23 — We have just seen that, during his absence in Italy, the author of the Essays was elected mayor of Bordeaux. “The gentlemen of Bordeaux,” says he, “elected me Mayor of their town while I was at a distance from France, and far from the thought of such a thing. I excused myself; but they gave to understand that I was wrong in so doing, it being also the command of the king that I should stand.” This the letter which Henry III. wrote to him on the occasion:

¶24 — MONSIEUR, DE MONTAIGNE,—Inasmuch as I hold in great esteem your fidelity and zealous devotion to my service, it has been a pleasure to me to learn that you have been chosen mayor of my town of Bordeaux. I have had the agreeable duty of confirming the selection, and I did so the more willingly, seeing that it was made during your distant absence; wherefore it is my desire, and I require and command you expressly that you proceed without delay to enter on the duties to which you have received so legitimate a call. And so you will act in a manner very agreeable to me, while the contrary will displease me greatly. Praying God, M. de Montaigne, to have you in his holy keeping.

¶25 — “Written at Paris, the 25th day of November 1581.

¶26 — “Henri.

¶27 — “A Monsieur de Montaigne, Knight of my Order, Gentleman in Ordinary of my Chamber, being at present in Rome.”

¶28 — Montaigne, in his new employment, the most important in the province, obeyed the axiom, that a man may not refuse a duty, though it absorb his time and attention, and even involve the sacrifice of his blood. Placed between two extreme parties, ever on the point of getting to blows, he showed himself in practice what he is in his book, the friend of a middle and temperate policy. Tolerant by character and on principle, he belonged, like all the great minds of the sixteenth century, to that political sect which sought to improve, without destroying, institutions; and we may say of him, what he himself said of La Boetie, “that he had that maxim indelibly impressed on his mind, to obey and submit himself religiously to the laws under which he was born. Affectionately attached to the repose of his country, an enemy to changes and innovations, he would have preferred to employ what means he had towards their discouragement and suppression, than in promoting their success.” Such was the platform of his administration.

¶29 — He applied himself, in an especial manner, to the maintenance of peace between the two religious factions which at that time divided the town of Bordeaux; and at the end of his two first years of office, his grateful fellow-citizens conferred on him (in 1583) the mayoralty for two years more, a distinction which had been enjoyed, as he tells us, only twice before. On the expiration of his official career, after four years’ duration, he could say fairly enough of himself that he left behind him neither hatred nor cause of offence.

¶30 — In the midst of the cares of government, Montaigne found time to revise and enlarge his Essays, which, since their appearance in 1580, were continually receiving augmentation in the form of additional chapters or papers. Two more editions were printed in 1582 and 1587; and during this time the author, while making alterations in the original text, had composed part of the Third Book. He went to Paris to make arrangements for the publication of his enlarged labours, and a fourth impression in 1588 was the result. He remained in the capital some time on this occasion, and it was now that he met for the first time Mademoiselle de Gournay. Gifted with an active and inquiring spirit, and, above all, possessing a sound and healthy tone of mind, Mademoiselle de Gournay had been carried from her childhood with that tide which set in with sixteenth century towards controversy, learning, and knowledge. She learnt Latin without a master; and when, the age of eighteen, she accidentally became possessor of a copy of the Essays, she was transported with delight and admiration.

¶31 — She quitted the chateau of Gournay, to come and see him. We cannot do better, in connection with this journey of sympathy, than to repeat the words of Pasquier: “That young lady, allied to several great and noble families of Paris, proposed to herself no other marriage than with her honour, enriched with the knowledge gained from good books, and, beyond all others, from the essays of M. de Montaigne, who making in the year 1588 a lengthened stay in the town of Paris, she went there for the purpose of forming his personal acquaintance; and her mother, Madame de Gournay, and herself took him back with them to their chateau, where, at two or three different times, he spent three months altogether, most welcome of visitors.” It was from this moment that Mademoiselle de Gournay dated her adoption as Montaigne’s daughter, a circumstance which has tended to confer immortality upon her in a far greater measure than her own literary productions.

¶32 — Montaigne, on leaving Paris, stayed a short time at Blois, to attend the meeting of the States-General. We do not know what part he took in that assembly: but it is known that he was commissioned, about this period, to negotiate between Henry of Navarre (afterwards Henry IV.) and the Duke of Guise. His political life is almost a blank; but De Thou assures us that Montaigne enjoyed the confidence of the principal persons of his time. De Thou, who calls him a frank man without constraint, tells us that, walking with him and Pasquier in the court at the Castle of Blois, he heard him pronounce some very remarkable opinions on contemporary events, and he adds that Montaigne had foreseen that the troubles in France could not end without witnessing the death of either the King of Navarre or of the Duke of Guise. He had made himself so completely master of the views of these two princes, that he told De Thou that the King of Navarre would have been prepared to embrace Catholicism, if he had not been afraid of being abandoned by his party, and that the Duke of Guise, on his part, had no particular repugnance to the Confession of Augsburg, for which the Cardinal of Lorraine, his uncle, had inspired him with a liking, if it had not been for the peril involved in quitting the Romish communion. It would have been easy for Montaigne to play, as we call it, a great part in politics, and create for himself a lofty position but his motto was, ‘Otio et Libertati’; and he returned quietly home to compose a chapter for his next edition on inconveniences of Greatness.

¶33 — The author of the Essays was now fifty-five. The malady which tormented him grew only worse and worse with years; and yet he occupied himself continually with reading, meditating, and composition. He employed the years 1589, 1590, and 1591 in making fresh additions to his book; and even in the approaches of old age he might fairly anticipate many happy hours, when he was attacked by quinsy, depriving him of the power utterance. Pasquier, who has left us some details his last hours, narrates that he remained three days in full possession of his faculties, but unable to speak, so that, in order to make known his desires, he was obliged to resort to writing; and as he felt his end drawing near, he begged his wife to summon certain of the gentlemen who lived in the neighbourhood to bid them a last farewell. When they had arrived, he caused mass to be celebrated in apartment; and just as the priest was elevating the host, Montaigne fell forward with his arms extended in front of him, on the bed, and so expired. He was in his sixtieth year. It was the 13th September 1592.

¶34 — Montaigne was buried near his own house; but a few years after his decease, his remains were removed to the church of a Commandery of St. Antoine at Bordeaux, where they still continue. His monument was restored in 1803 by a descendant. It was seen about 1858 by an English traveller (Mr. St. John).’—[“Montaigne the Essayist,” by Bayle St. John, 1858, 2 vols. 8vo, is one of most delightful books of the kind.]— and was then in good preservation.

¶35 — In 1595 Mademoiselle de Gournay published a new edition of Montaigne’s Essays, and the first with the latest emendations of the author, from a copy presented to her by his widow, and which has not been recovered, although it is known to have been in existence some years after the date of the impression, made on its authority.

¶36 — Coldly as Montaigne’s literary productions appear to have been received by the generation immediately succeeding his own age, his genius grew into just appreciation in the seventeenth century, when such great spirits arose as La Bruyere, Moliere, La Fontaine, Madame de Sevigne. “O,” exclaimed the Chatelaine des Rochers, “what capital company he is, the dear man! he is my old friend; and just for the reason that he is so, he always seems new. My God! how full is that book of sense!” Balzac said that he had carried human reason as far and as high as it could go, both in politics and in morals. On the other hand, Malebranche and the writers of Port Royal were against him; some reprehended the licentiousness of his writings; others their impiety, materialism, epicureanism. Even Pascal, who had carefully read the Essays, and gained no small profit by them, did not spare his reproaches. But Montaigne has outlived detraction. As time has gone on, his admirers and borrowers have increased in number, and his Jansenism, which recommended him to the eighteenth century, may not be his least recommendation in the nineteenth. Here we have certainly, on the whole, a first-class man, and one proof of his masterly genius seems to be, that his merits and his beauties are sufficient to induce us to leave out of consideration blemishes and faults which would have been fatal to an inferior writer.

 THE LETTERS OF MONTAIGNE.

I.——To Monsieur de Montaigne

¶37 — [This account of the death of La Boetie begins imperfectly. It first appeared in a little volume of Miscellanies in 1571. See Hazlitt, ubi sup. p. 630.]—As to his last words, doubtless, if any man can give good account of them, it is I, both because, during the whole of his sickness he conversed as fully with me as with any one, and also because, in consequence of the singular and brotherly friendship which we had entertained for each other, I was perfectly acquainted with the intentions, opinions, and wishes which he had formed in the course of his life, as much so, certainly, as one man can possibly be with those of another man; and because I knew them to be elevated, virtuous, full of steady resolution, and (after all said) admirable. I well foresaw that, if his illness permitted him to express himself, he would allow nothing to fall from him, in such an extremity, that was not replete with good example. I consequently took every care in my power to treasure what was said. True it is, Monseigneur, as my memory is not only in itself very short, but in this case affected by the trouble which I have undergone, through so heavy and important a loss, that I have forgotten a number of things which I should wish to have had known; but those which I recollect shall be related to you as exactly as lies in my power. For to represent in full measure his noble career suddenly arrested, to paint to you his indomitable courage, in a body worn out and prostrated by pain and the assaults of death, I confess, would demand a far better ability than mine: because, although, when in former years he discoursed on serious and important matters, he handled them in such a manner that it was difficult to reproduce exactly what he said, yet his ideas and his words at the last seemed to rival each other in serving him. For I am sure that I never knew him give birth to such fine conceptions, or display so much eloquence, as in the time of his sickness. If, Monseigneur, you blame me for introducing his more ordinary observations, please to know that I do so advisedly; for since they proceeded from him at a season of such great trouble, they indicate the perfect tranquillity of his mind and thoughts to the last.

¶38 — On Monday, the 9th day of August 1563, on my return from the Court, I sent an invitation to him to come and dine with me. He returned word that he was obliged, but, being indisposed, he would thank me to do him the pleasure of spending an hour with him before he started for Medoc. Shortly after my dinner I went to him. He had laid himself down on the bed with his clothes on, and he was already, I perceived, much changed. He complained of diarrhoea, accompanied by the gripes, and said that he had it about him ever since he played with M. d’Escars with nothing but his doublet on, and that with him a cold often brought on such attacks. I advised him to go as he had proposed, but to stay for the night at Germignac, which is only about two leagues from the town. I gave him this advice, because some houses, near to that where he was ping, were visited by the plague, about which he was nervous since his return from Perigord and the Agenois, here it had been raging; and, besides, horse exercise was, from my own experience, beneficial under similar circumstances. He set out, accordingly, with his wife and M. Bouillhonnas, his uncle.

¶39 — Early on the following morning, however, I had intelligence from Madame de la Boetie, that in the night he had fresh and violent attack of dysentery. She had called in physician and apothecary, and prayed me to lose no time coming, which (after dinner) I did. He was delighted to see me; and when I was going away, under promise to turn the following day, he begged me more importunately and affectionately than he was wont to do, to give him as such of my company as possible. I was a little affected; yet was about to leave, when Madame de la Boetie, as if she foresaw something about to happen, implored me with tears to stay the night. When I consented, he seemed to grow more cheerful. I returned home the next day, and on the Thursday I paid him another visit. He had become worse; and his loss of blood from the dysentery, which reduced his strength very much, was largely on the increase. I quitted his side on Friday, but on Saturday I went to him, and found him very weak. He then gave me to understand that his complaint was infectious, and, moreover, disagreeable and depressing; and that he, knowing thoroughly my constitution, desired that I should content myself with coming to see him now and then. On the contrary, after that I never left his side.

¶40 — It was only on the Sunday that he began to converse with me on any subject beyond the immediate one of his illness, and what the ancient doctors thought of it: we had not touched on public affairs, for I found at the very outset that he had a dislike to them.

¶41 — But, on the Sunday, he had a fainting fit; and when he came to himself, he told me that everything seemed to him confused, as if in a mist and in disorder, and that, nevertheless, this visitation was not unpleasing to him. “Death,” I replied, “has no worse sensation, my brother.” “None so bad,” was his answer. He had had no regular sleep since the beginning of his illness; and as he became worse and worse, he began to turn his attention to questions which men commonly occupy themselves with in the last extremity, despairing now of getting better, and intimating as much to me. On that day, as he appeared in tolerably good spirits, I took occasion to say to him that, in consideration of the singular love I bore him, it would become me to take care that his affairs, which he had conducted with such rare prudence in his life, should not be neglected at present; and that I should regret it if, from want of proper counsel, he should leave anything unsettled, not only on account of the loss to his family, but also to his good name.

¶42 — He thanked me for my kindness; and after a little reflection, as if he was resolving certain doubts in his own mind, he desired me to summon his uncle and his wife by themselves, in order that he might acquaint them with his testamentary dispositions. I told him that this would shock them. “No, no,” he answered, “I will cheer them by making out my case to be better than it is.” And then he inquired, whether we were not all much taken by surprise at his having fainted? I replied, that it was of no importance, being incidental to the complaint from which he suffered. “True, my brother,” said he; “it would be unimportant, even though it should lead to what you most dread.” “For you,” I rejoined, “it might be a happy thing; but I should be the loser, who would thereby be deprived of so great, so wise, and so steadfast a friend, a friend whose place I should never see supplied.” “It is very likely you may not,” was his answer; “and be sure that one thing which makes me somewhat anxious to recover, and to delay my journey to that place, whither I am already half-way gone, is the thought of the loss both you and that poor man and woman there (referring to his uncle and wife) must sustain; for I love them with my whole heart, and I feel certain that they will find it very hard to lose me. I should also regret it on account of such as have, in my lifetime, valued me, and whose conversation I should like to have enjoyed a little longer; and I beseech you, my brother, if I leave the world, to carry to them for me an assurance of the esteem I entertained for them to the last moment of my existence. My birth was, moreover, scarcely to so little purpose but that, had I lived, I might have done some service to the public; but, however this may be, I am prepared to submit to the will of God, when it shall please Him to call me, being confident of enjoying the tranquillity which you have foretold for me. As for you, my friend, I feel sure that you are so wise, that you will control your emotions, and submit to His divine ordinance regarding me; and I beg of you to see that that good man and woman do not mourn for my departure unnecessarily.”

¶43 — He proceeded to inquire how they behaved at present. “Very well,” said I, “considering the circumstances.” “Ah!” he replied, “that is, so long as they do not abandon all hope of me; but when that shall be the case, you will have a hard task to support them.” It was owing to his strong regard for his wife and uncle that he studiously disguised from them his own conviction as to the certainty of his end, and he prayed me to do the same. When they were near him he assumed an appearance of gaiety, and flattered them with hopes. I then went to call them. They came, wearing as composed an air as possible; and when we four were together, he addressed us, with an untroubled countenance, as follows: “Uncle and wife, rest assured that no new attack of my disease, or fresh doubt that I have as to my recovery, has led me to take this step of communicating to you my intentions, for, thank God, I feel very well and hopeful; but taught by observation and experience the instability of all human things, and even of the life to which we are so much attached, and which is, nevertheless, a mere bubble; and knowing, moreover, that my state of health brings me more within the danger of death, I have thought proper to settle my worldly affairs, having the benefit of your advice.” Then addressing himself more particularly to his uncle, “Good uncle,” said he, “if I were to rehearse all the obligations under which I lie to you, I am sure that I never should make an end. Let me only say that, wherever I have been, and with whomsoever I have conversed, I have represented you as doing for me all that a father could do for a son; both in the care with which you tended my education, and in the zeal with which you pushed me forward into public life, so that my whole existence is a testimony of your good offices towards me. In short, I am indebted for all that I have to you, who have been to me as a parent; and therefore I have no right to part with anything, unless it be with your approval.”

¶44 — There was a general silence hereupon, and his uncle was prevented from replying by tears and sobs. At last he said that whatever he thought for the best would be agreeable to him; and as he intended to make him his heir, he was at liberty to dispose of what would be his.

¶45 — Then he turned to his wife. “My image,” said he (for so he often called her, there being some sort of relationship between them), “since I have been united to you by marriage, which is one of the most weighty and sacred ties imposed on us by God, for the purpose of maintaining human society, I have continued to love, cherish, and value you; and I know that you have returned my affection, for which I have no sufficient acknowledgment. I beg you to accept such portion of my estate as I bequeath to you, and be satisfied with it, though it is very inadequate to your desert.”

¶46 — Afterwards he turned to me. “My brother,” he began, “for whom I have so entire a love, and whom I selected out of so large a number, thinking to revive with you that virtuous and sincere friendship which, owing to the degeneracy of the age, has grown to be almost unknown to us, and now exists only in certain vestiges of antiquity, I beg of you, as a mark of my affection to you, to accept my library: a slender offering, but given with a cordial will, and suitable to you, seeing that you are fond of learning. It will be a memorial of your old companion.”

¶47 — Then he addressed all three of us. He blessed God that in his extremity he had the happiness to be surrounded by those whom he held dearest in the world, and he looked upon it as a fine spectacle, where four persons were together, so unanimous in their feelings, and loving each other for each other’s sake. He commended us one to the other; and proceeded thus: “My worldly matters being arranged, I must now think of the welfare of my soul. I am a Christian; I am a Catholic. I have lived one, and I shall die one. Send for a priest; for I wish to conform to this last Christian obligation.” He now concluded his discourse, which he had conducted with such a firm face and with so distinct an utterance, that whereas, when I first entered his room, he was feeble, inarticulate in his speech, his pulse low and feverish, and his features pallid, now, by a sort of miracle, he appeared to have rallied, and his pulse was so strong that for the sake of comparison, I asked him to feel mine.

¶48 — I felt my heart so oppressed at this moment, that I had not the power to make him any answer; but in the course of two or three hours, solicitous to keep up his courage, and, likewise, out of the tenderness which I had had all my life for his honour and fame, wishing a larger number of witnesses to his admirable fortitude, I said to him, how much I was ashamed to think that I lacked courage to listen to what he, so great a sufferer, had the courage to deliver; that down to the present time I had scarcely conceived that God granted us such command over human infirmities, and had found a difficulty in crediting the examples I had read in histories; but that with such evidence of the thing before my eyes, I gave praise to God that it had shown itself in one so excessively dear to me, and who loved me so entirely, and that his example would help me to act in a similar manner when my turn came. Interrupting me, he begged that it might happen so, and that the conversation which had passed between us might not be mere words, but might be impressed deeply on our minds, to be put in exercise at the first occasion; and that this was the real object and aim of all philosophy.

¶49 — He then took my hand, and continued: “Brother, friend, there are many acts of my life, I think, which have cost me as much difficulty as this one is likely to do; and, after all, I have been long prepared for it, and have my lesson by heart. Have I not lived long enough? I am just upon thirty-three. By the grace of God, my days so far have known nothing but health and happiness; but in the ordinary course of our unstable human affairs, this could not have lasted much longer; it would have become time for me to enter on graver avocations, and I should thus have involved myself in numberless vexations, and, among them, the troubles of old age, from which I shall now be exempt. Moreover, it is probable that hitherto my life has been spent more simply, and with less of evil, than if God had spared me, and I had survived to feel the thirst for riches and worldly prosperity. I am sure, for my part, that I now go to God and the place of the blessed.” He seemed to detect in my expression some inquietude at his words; and he exclaimed, “What, my brother, would you make me entertain apprehensions? Had I any, whom would it become so much as yourself to remove them?”

¶50 — The notary, who had been summoned to draw up his will, came in the evening, and when he had the documents prepared, I inquired of La Boetie if he would sign them. “Sign them,” cried he; “I will do so with my own hand; but I could desire more time, for I feel exceedingly timid and weak, and in a manner exhausted.” But when I was going to change the conversation, he suddenly rallied, said he had but a short time to live, and asked if the notary wrote rapidly, for he should dictate without making any pause. The notary was called, and he dictated his will there and then with such speed that the man could scarcely keep up with him; and when he had done, he asked me to read it out, saying to me, “What a good thing it is to look after what are called our riches.” ‘Sunt haec, quoe hominibus vocantur bona’. As soon as the will was signed, the chamber being full, he asked me if it would hurt him to talk. I answered, that it would not, if he did not speak too loud. He then summoned Mademoiselle de Saint Quentin, his niece, to him, and addressed her thus: “Dear niece, since my earliest acquaintance with thee, I have observed the marks of, great natural goodness in thee; but the services which thou rendered to me, with so much affectionate diligence, in my present and last necessity, inspire me with high hopes of thee; and I am under great obligations to thee, and give thee most affectionate thanks. Let me relieve my conscience by counselling thee to be, in the first place, devout, to God: for this doubtless is our first duty, failing which all others can be of little advantage or grace, but which, duly observed, carries with it necessarily all other virtues. After God, thou shouldest love thy father and mother—thy mother, my sister, whom I regard as one of the best and most intelligent of women, and by whom I beg of thee to let thy own life be regulated. Allow not thyself to be led away by pleasures; shun, like the plague, the foolish familiarities thou seest between some men and women; harmless enough at first, but which by insidious degrees corrupt the heart, and thence lead it to negligence, and then into the vile slough of vice. Credit me, the greatest safeguard to female chastity is sobriety of demeanour. I beseech and direct that thou often call to mind the friendship which was betwixt us; but I do not wish thee to mourn for me too much—an injunction which, so far as it is in my power, I lay on all my friends, since it might seem that by doing so they felt a jealousy of that blessed condition in which I am about to be placed by death. I assure thee, my dear, that if I had the option now of continuing in life or of completing the voyage on which I have set out, I should find it very hard to choose. Adieu, dear niece.”

¶51 — Mademoiselle d’Arsat, his stepdaughter, was next called. He said to her: “Daughter, you stand in no great need of advice from me, insomuch as you have a mother, whom I have ever found most sagacious, and entirely in conformity with my own opinions and wishes, and whom I have never found faulty; with such a preceptress, you cannot fail to be properly instructed. Do not account it singular that I, with no tie of blood to you, am interested in you; for, being the child of one who is so closely allied to me, I am necessarily concerned in what concerns you; and consequently the affairs of your brother, M. d’Arsat, have ever been watched by me with as much care as my own; nor perhaps will it be to your disadvantage that you were my step-daughter. You enjoy sufficient store of wealth and beauty; you are a lady of good family; it only remains for you to add to these possessions the cultivation of your mind, in which I exhort you not to fail. I do not think necessary to warn you against vice, a thing so odious in women, for I would not even suppose that you could harbour any inclination for it—nay, I believe that you hold the very name in abhorrence. Dear daughter, farewell.”

¶52 — All in the room were weeping and lamenting; but he held without interruption the thread of his discourse, which was pretty long. But when he had done, he directed us all to leave the room, except the women attendants, whom he styled his garrison. But first, calling to him my brother, M. de Beauregard, he said to him: “M. de Beauregard, you have my best thanks for all the care you have taken of me. I have now a thing which I am very anxious indeed to mention to you, and with your permission I will do so.” As my brother gave him encouragement to proceed, he added: “I assure you that I never knew any man who engaged in the reformation of our Church with greater sincerity, earnestness, and single-heartedness than yourself. I consider that you were led to it by observing the vicious character of our prelates, which no doubt much requires setting in order, and by imperfections which time has brought into our Church. It is not my desire at present discourage you from this course, for I would have no one act in opposition to his conscience; but I wish, having regard to the good repute acquired by your family from its enduring concord—a family than which none can be dearer to me; a family, thank God! no member of which has ever been guilty of dishonour —in regard, further, to the will of your good father to whom you owe so much, and of your, uncle, I wish you to avoid extreme means; avoid harshness and violence: be reconciled with your relatives; do not act apart, but unite. You perceive what disasters our quarrels have brought upon this kingdom, and I anticipate still worse mischiefs; and in your goodness and wisdom, beware of involving your family in such broils; let it continue to enjoy its former reputation and happiness. M. de Beauregard, take what I say in good part, and as a proof of the friendship I feel for you. I postponed till now any communication with you on the subject, and perhaps the condition in which you see me address you, may cause my advice and opinion to carry greater authority.” My brother expressed his thanks to him cordially.

¶53 — On the Monday morning he had become so ill that he quite despaired of himself; and he said to me very pitifully: “Brother, do not you feel pain for all the pain I am suffering? Do you not perceive now that the help you give me has no other effect than that of lengthening my suffering?”

¶54 — Shortly afterwards he fainted, and we all thought him gone; but by the application of vinegar and wine he rallied. But he soon sank, and when he heard us in lamentation, he murmured, “O God! who is it that teases me so? Why did you break the agreeable repose I was enjoying? I beg of you to leave me.” And then, when he caught the sound of my voice, he continued: “And art thou, my brother, likewise unwilling to see me at peace? O, how thou robbest me of my repose!” After a while, he seemed to gain more strength, and called for wine, which he relished, and declared it to be the finest drink possible. I, in order to change the current of his thoughts, put in, “Surely not; water is the best.” “Ah, yes,” he returned, “doubtless so;—(Greek phrase)—.” He had now become, icy-cold at his extremities, even to his face; a deathly perspiration was upon him, and his pulse was scarcely perceptible.

¶55 — This morning he confessed, but the priest had omitted to bring with him the necessary apparatus for celebrating Mass. On the Tuesday, however, M. de la Boetie summoned him to aid him, as he said, in discharging the last office of a Christian. After the conclusion of Mass, he took the sacrament; when the priest was about to depart, he said to him: “Spiritual father, I implore you humbly, as well as those over whom you are set, to pray to the Almighty on my behalf; that, if it be decreed in heaven that I am now to end my life, He will take compassion on my soul, and pardon me my sins, which are manifold, it not being possible for so weak and poor a creature as I to obey completely the will of such a Master; or, if He think fit to keep me longer here, that it may please Him to release my present extreme anguish, and to direct my footsteps in the right path, that I may become a better man than I have been.” He paused to recover breath a little; priest was about to go away, he called him back and proceeded: “I desire to say, besides, in your hearing this: I declare that I was christened and I have lived, and that so I wish to die, in the faith which Moses preached in Egypt; which afterwards the Patriarchs accepted and professed in Judaea; and which, in the course of time, has been transmitted to France and to us.” He seemed desirous of adding something more, but he ended with a request to his uncle and me to send up prayers for him; “for those are,” he said, “the best duties that Christians can fulfil one for another.” In the course of talking, his shoulder was uncovered, and although a man-servant stood near him, he asked his uncle to re-adjust the clothes. Then, turning his eyes towards me, he said, “Ingenui est, cui multum debeas, ei plurimum velle debere.”

¶56 — M. de Belot called in the afternoon to see him, and M. de la Boetie, taking his hand, said to him: “I was on the point of discharging my debt, but my kind creditor has given me a little further time.” A little while after, appearing to wake out of a sort of reverie, he uttered words which he had employed once or twice before in the course of his sickness: “Ah well, ah well, whenever the hour comes, I await it with pleasure and fortitude.” And then, as they were holding his mouth open by force to give him a draught, he observed to M. de Belot: “An vivere tanti est?”

¶57 — As the evening approached, he began perceptibly to sink; and while I supped, he sent for me to come, being no more than the shadow of a man, or, as he put it himself, ‘non homo, sed species hominis’; and he said to me with the utmost difficulty: “My brother, my friend, please God I may realise the imaginations I have just enjoyed.” Afterwards, having waited for some time while he remained silent, and by painful efforts was drawing long sighs (for his tongue at this point began to refuse its functions), I said, “What are they?” “Grand, grand!” he replied. “I have never yet failed,” returned I, “to have the honour of hearing your conceptions and imaginations communicated to me; will you not now still let me enjoy them?” “I would indeed,” he answered; “but, my brother, I am not able to do so; they are admirable, infinite, and unspeakable.” We stopped short there, for he could not go on. A little before, indeed, he had shown a desire to speak to his wife, and had told her, with as gay a countenance as he could contrive to assume, that he had a story to tell her. And it seemed as if he was making an attempt to gain utterance; but, his strength failing him, he begged a little wine to resuscitate it. It was of no avail, for he fainted away suddenly, and was for some time insensible. Having become so near a neighbour to death, and hearing the sobs of Mademoiselle de la Boetie, he called her, and said to her thus: “My own likeness, you grieve yourself beforehand; will you not have pity on me? take courage. Assuredly, it costs me more than half the pain I endure, to see you suffer; and reasonably so, because the evils which we ourselves feel we do not actually ourselves suffer, but it certain sentient faculties which God plants in us, that feel them: whereas what we feel on account of others, we feel by consequence of a certain reasoning process which goes on within our minds. But I am going away” —That he said because his strength was failing him; and fearing that he had frightened his wife, he resumed, observing: “I am going to sleep. Good night, my wife; go thy way.” This was the last farewell he took of her.

¶58 — After she had left, “My brother,” said he to me, “keep near me, if you please;” and then feeling the advance of death more pressing and more acute, or else the effect of some warm draught which they had made him swallow, his voice grew stronger and clearer, and he turned quite with violence in his bed, so that all began again to entertain the hope which we had lost only upon witnessing his extreme prostration.

¶59 — At this stage he proceeded, among other things, to pray me again and again, in a most affectionate manner, to give him a place; so that I was apprehensive that his reason might be impaired, particularly when, on my pointing out to him that he was doing himself harm, and that these were not of the words of a rational man, he did not yield at first, but redoubled his outcry, saying, “My brother, my brother! dost thou then refuse me a place?” insomuch that he constrained me to demonstrate to him that, as he breathed and spoke, and had his physical being, therefore he had his place. “Yes, yes,” he responded, “I have; but it is not that which I need; and, besides, when all is said, I have no longer any existence.” “God,” I replied, “will grant you a better one soon.” “Would it were now, my brother,” was his answer. “It is now three days since I have been eager to take my departure.”

¶60 — Being in this extremity, he frequently called me, merely to satisfy him that I was at his side. At length, he composed himself a little to rest, which strengthened our hopes; so much so, indeed, that I left the room, and went to rejoice thereupon with Mademoiselle de la Boetie. But, an hour or so afterwards, he called me by name once or twice, and then with a long sigh expired at three o’clock on Wednesday morning, the 18th August 1563, having lived thirty-two years, nine months, and seventeen days.

II.——To Monseigneur, Monseigneur de Montaigne.

¶61 — [This letter is prefixed to Montaigne’s translation of the “Natural Theology” of Raymond de Sebonde, printed at Paris in 1569.]

¶62 — In pursuance of the instructions which you gave me last year in your house at Montaigne, Monseigneur, I have put into a French dress, with my own hand, Raymond de Sebonde, that great Spanish theologian and philosopher; and I have divested him, so far as I could, of that rough bearing and barbaric appearance which you saw him wear at first; that, in my opinion, he is now qualified to present himself in the best company. It is perfectly possible that some fastidious persons will detect in the book some trace of Gascon parentage; but it will be so much the more to their discredit, that they allowed the task to devolve on one who is quite a novice in these things. It is only right, Monseigneur, that the work should come before the world under your auspices, since whatever emendations and polish it may have received, are owing to you. Still I see well that, if you think proper to balance accounts with the author, you will find yourself much his debtor; for against his excellent and religious discourses, his lofty and, so to speak, divine conceptions, you will find that you will have to set nothing but words and phraseology; a sort of merchandise so ordinary and commonplace, that whoever has the most of it, peradventure is the worst off.

¶63 — Monseigneur, I pray God to grant you a very long and happy life. From Paris, this 18th of June 1568. Your most humble and most obedient son,

¶64 — Michel de Montaigne

III.——To Monsieur, Monsieur de Lansac,

¶65 — —[This letter appears to belong to 1570.]—Knight of the King’s Order, Privy Councillor, Sub-controller of his Finance, and Captain of the Cent Gardes of his Household.

¶66 — MONSIEUR,—I send you the OEconomics of Xenophon, put into French by the late M. de la Boetie,—[Printed at Paris, 8vo, 1571, and reissued, with the addition of some notes, in 1572, with a fresh title-page.]—a present which appears to me to be appropriate, as well because it is the work of a gentleman of mark,—[Meaning Xenophon.]—a man illustrious in war and peace, as because it has taken its second shape from a personage whom I know to have been held by you in affectionate regard during his life. This will be an inducement to you to continue to cherish towards his memory, your good opinion and goodwill. And to be bold with you, Monsieur, do not fear to increase these sentiments somewhat; for, as you had knowledge of his high qualities only in his public capacity, it rests with me to assure you how many endowments he possessed beyond your personal experience of him. He did me the honour, while he lived, and I count it amongst the most fortunate circumstances in my own career, to have with me a friendship so close and so intricately knit, that no movement, impulse, thought, of his mind was kept from me, and if I have not formed a right judgment of him, I must suppose it to be from my own want of scope. Indeed, without exaggeration, he was so nearly a prodigy, that I am afraid of not being credited when I speak of him, even though I should keep much within the mark of my own actual knowledge. And for this time, Monsieur, I shall content myself with praying you, for the honour and respect we owe to truth, to testify and believe that our Guienne never beheld his peer among the men of his vocation. Under the hope, therefore, that you will pay him his just due, and in order to refresh him in your memory, I present you this book, which will answer for me that, were it not for the insufficiency of my power, I would offer you as willingly something of my own, as an acknowledgment of the obligations I owe to you, and of the ancient favour and friendship which you have borne towards the members of our house. But, Monsieur, in default of better coin, I offer you in payment the assurance of my desire to do you humble service.

¶67 — Monsieur, I pray God to have you in His keeping. Your obedient servant, MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE.

IV.——To Monsieur, Monsieur de Mesmes, Lord of Roissy and Malassize, Privy

¶68 — Councillor to the King.

¶69 — Monsieur,—It is one of the most conspicuous follies committed by men, to employ the strength of their understanding in overturning and destroying those opinions which are commonly received among us, and which afford us satisfaction and content; for while everything beneath heaven employs the ways and means placed at its disposal by nature for the advancement and commodity of its being, these, in order to appear of a more sprightly and enlightened wit, not accepting anything which has not been tried and balanced a thousand times with the most subtle reasoning, sacrifice their peace of mind to doubt, uneasiness, and feverish excitement. It is not without reason that childhood and simplicity have been recommended by holy writ itself. For my part, I prefer to be quiet rather than clever: give me content, even if I am not to be so wide in my range. This is the reason, Monsieur, why, although persons of an ingenious turn laugh at our care as to what will happen after our own time, for instance, to our souls, which, lodged elsewhere, will lose all consciousness of what goes on here below, yet I consider it to be a great consolation for the frailty and brevity of life, to reflect that we have the power of prolonging it by reputation and fame; and I embrace very readily this pleasant and favourable notion original with our being, without inquiring too critically how or why it is. Insomuch that having loved, beyond everything, the late M. de la Boetie, the greatest man, in my judgment, of our age, I should think myself very negligent of my duty if I failed, to the utmost of my power, to prevent such a name as his, and a memory so richly meriting remembrance, from falling into oblivion; and if I did not use my best endeavour to keep them fresh. I believe that he feels something of what I do on his behalf, and that my services touch and rejoice him. In fact, he lives in my heart so vividly and so wholly, that I am loath to believe him committed to the dull ground, or altogether cast off from communication with us. Therefore, Monsieur, since every new light I can shed on him and his name, is so much added to his second period of existence, and, moreover, since his name is ennobled and honoured by the place which receives it, it falls to me not only to extend it as widely as I can, but to confide it to the keeping of persons of honour and virtue; among whom you hold such a rank, that, to afford you the opportunity of receiving this new guest, and giving him good entertainment, I decided on presenting to you this little work, not for any profit you are likely to derive from it, being well aware that you do not need to have Plutarch and his companions interpreted to you—but it is possible that Madame de Roissy, reading in it the order of her household management and of your happy accord painted to the life, will be pleased to see how her own natural inclination has not only reached but surpassed the theories of the wisest philosophers, regarding the duties and laws of the wedded state. And, at all events, it will be always an honour to me, to be able to do anything which shall be for the pleasure of you and yours, on account of the obligation under which I lie to serve you.

¶70 — Monsieur, I pray God to grant you a long and happy life. From Montaigne, this 30th April 1570. Your humble servant, MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE.

V.——To Monsieur, Monsieur de L’Hospital, Chancellor of France

¶71 — Monseigneur,—I am of the opinion that persons such as you, to whom fortune and reason have committed the charge of public affairs, are not more inquisitive in any point than in ascertaining the character of those in office under you; for no society is so poorly furnished, but that, if a proper distribution of authority be used, it has persons sufficient for the discharge of all official duties; and when this is the case, nothing is wanting to make a State perfect in its constitution. Now, in proportion as this is so much to be desired, so it is the more difficult of accomplishment, since you cannot have eyes to embrace a multitude so large and so widely extended, nor to see to the bottom of hearts, in order that you may discover intentions and consciences, matters principally to be considered; so that there has never been any commonwealth so well organised, in which we might not detect often enough defect in such a department or such a choice; and in those systems, where ignorance and malice, favouritism, intrigue, and violence govern, if any selection happens to be made on the ground of merit and regularity, we may doubtless thank Fortune, which, in its capricious movements, has for once taken the path of reason.

¶72 — This consideration, Monseigneur, often consoled me, when I beheld M. Etienne de la Boetie, one of the fittest men for high office in France, pass his whole life without employment and notice, by his domestic hearth, to the singular detriment of the public; for, so far as he was concerned, I may assure you, Monseigneur, that he was so rich in those treasures which defy fortune, that never was man more satisfied or content. I know, indeed, that he was raised to the dignities connected with his neighbourhood—dignities accounted considerable; and I know also, that no one ever acquitted himself better of them; and when he died at the age of thirty-two, he enjoyed a reputation in that way beyond all who had preceded him.

¶73 — But for all that, it is no reason that a man should be left a common soldier, who deserves to become a captain; nor to assign mean functions to those who are perfectly equal to the highest. In truth, his powers were badly economised and too sparingly employed; insomuch that, over and above his actual work, there was abundant capacity lying idle which might have been called into service, both to the public advantage and his own private glory.

¶74 — Therefore, Monseigneur, since he was so indifferent to his own fame (for virtue and ambition, unfortunately, seldom lodge together), and since he lived in an age when others were too dull or too jealous to witness to his character, I have it marvellously at heart that his memory, at all events, to which I owe the good offices of a friend, should enjoy the recompense of his brave life; and that it should survive in the good report of men of honour and virtue. On this account, sir, I have been desirous to bring to light, and present to you, such few Latin verses as he left behind. Different from the builder, who places the most attractive, portion of his house towards the street, and to the draper, who displays in his window his best goods, that which was most precious in my friend, the juice and marrow of his genius, departed with him, and there have remained to us but the bark and the leaves.

¶75 — The exactly regulated movements of his mind, his piety, his virtue, his justice, his vivacity, the solidity and soundness of his judgment, the loftiness of his ideas, raised so far above the common level, his learning, the grace which accompanied his most ordinary actions, the tender affection he had for his miserable country, and his supreme and sworn detestation of all vice, but principally of that villainous traffic which disguises itself under the honourable name of justice, should certainly impress all well-disposed persons with a singular love towards him, and an extraordinary regret for his loss. But, sir, I am unable to do justice to all these qualities; and of the fruit of his own studies it had not entered into his mind to leave any proof to posterity; all that remains, is the little which, as a pastime, he did at intervals.

¶76 — However this may be, I beg you, sir, to receive it kindly; and as our judgment of great things is many times formed from lesser things, and as even the recreations of illustrious men carry with them, to intelligent observers, some honourable traits of their origin, I would have you form from this, some knowledge of him, and hence lovingly cherish his name and his memory. In this, sir, you will only reciprocate the high opinion which he had of your virtue, and realise what he infinitely desired in his lifetime; for there was no one in the world in whose acquaintance and friendship he would have been so happy to see himself established, as in your own. But if any man is offended by the freedom which I use with the belongings of another, I can tell him that nothing which has been written or been laid down, even in the schools of philosophy, respecting the sacred duties and rights of friendship, could give an adequate idea of the relations which subsisted between this personage and myself.

¶77 — Moreover, sir, this slender gift, to make two throws of one stone at the same time, may likewise serve, if you please, to testify the honour and respect which I entertain for your ability and high qualities; for as to those gifts which are adventitious and accidental, it is not to my taste to take them into account.

¶78 — Sir, I pray God to grant you a very happy and a very long life. From Montaigne, this 30th of April 1570.—Your humble and obedient servant,

¶79 — Michel de Montaigne.

VI.——To Monsieur, Monsieur de Folx, Privy Councillor, and Ambassador of His Majesty to the Signory of Venice.

—[ Printed before the ‘Vers Francois’ of Etienne de la Boetie, 8vo, Paris, 1572.]

¶80 — SIR,—Being on the point of commending to you and to posterity the memory of the late Etienne de la Boetie, as well for his extreme virtue as for the singular affection which he bore to me, it struck me as an indiscretion very serious in its results, and meriting some coercion from our laws, the practice which often prevails of robbing virtue of glory, its faithful associate, in order to confer it, in accordance with our private interests and without discrimination, on the first comer; seeing that our two principal guiding reins are reward and punishment, which only touch us properly, and as men, through the medium of honour and dishonour, forasmuch as these penetrate the mind, and come home to our most intimate feelings: just where animals themselves are susceptible, more or less, to all other kinds of recompense and corporal chastisement. Moreover, it is well to notice that the custom of praising virtue, even in those who are no longer with us, impalpable as it is to them, serves as a stimulant to the living to imitate their example; just as capital sentences are carried out by the law, more for the sake of warning to others, than in relation to those who suffer. Now, commendation and its opposite being analogous as regards effects, we cannot easily deny the fact, that although the law prohibits one man from slandering the reputation of another, it does not prevent us from bestowing reputation without cause. This pernicious licence in respect to the distribution of praise, has formerly been confined in its area of operations; and it may be the reason why poetry once lost favour with the more judicious. However this may be, it cannot be concealed that the vice of falsehood is one very unbecoming in gentleman, let it assume what guise it will.

¶81 — As for that personage of whom I am speaking to you, sir he leads me far away indeed from this kind of language; for the danger in his case is not, lest I should lend him anything, but that I might take something from him; and it is his ill-fortune that, while he has supplied me, so far as ever a man could, with just and obvious opportunities for commendation, I find myself unable and unqualified to render it to him —I, who am his debtor for so many vivid communications, and who alone have it in my power to answer for a million of accomplishments, perfections, and virtues, latent (thanks to his unkind stars) in so noble a soul. For the nature of things having (I know not how) permitted that truth, fair and acceptable—as it may be of itself, is only embraced where there are arts of persuasion, to insinuate it into our minds, I see myself so wanting, both in authority to support my simple testimony, and in the eloquence requisite for lending it value and weight, that I was on the eve of relinquishing the task, having nothing of his which would enable me to exhibit to the world a proof of his genius and knowledge.

¶82 — In truth, sir, having been overtaken by his fate in the flower of his age, and in the full enjoyment of the most vigorous health, it had been his design to publish some day works which would have demonstrated to posterity what sort of a man he was; and, peradventure, he was indifferent enough to fame, having formed such a plan in his head, to proceed no further in it. But I have come to the conclusion, that it was far more excusable in him to bury with him all his rare endowments, than it would be on my part to bury also with me the knowledge of them which I had acquired from him; and, therefore, having collected with care all the remains which I found scattered here and there among his papers, I intend to distribute them so as to recommend his memory to as many persons as possible, selecting the most suitable and worthy of my acquaintance, and those whose testimony might do him greatest honour: such as you, sir, who may very possibly have had some knowledge of him during his life, but assuredly too slight to discover the perfect extent of his worth. Posterity may credit me, if it chooses, when I swear upon my conscience, that I knew and saw him to be such as, all things considered, I could neither desire nor imagine a genius surpassing his.

¶83 — I beg you very humbly, sir, not only to take his name under your general protection, but also these ten or twelve French stanzas, which lay themselves, as of necessity, under shadow of your patronage. For I will not disguise from you, that their publication was deferred, upon the appearance of his other writings, under the pretext (as it was alleged yonder at Paris) that they were too crude to come to light. You will judge, sir, how much truth there is in this; and since it is thought that hereabout nothing can be produced in our own dialect but what is barbarous and unpolished, it falls to you, who, besides your rank as the first house in Guienne, indeed down from your ancestors, possess every other sort of qualification, to establish, not merely by your example, but by your authoritative testimony, that such is not always the case: the more so that, though ‘tis more natural with the Gascons to act than talk, yet sometimes they employ the tongue more than the arm, and wit in place of valour.

¶84 — For my own part; sir, it is not in my way to judge of such matters; but I have heard persons who are supposed to understand them, say that these stanzas are not only worthy to be presented in the market-place, but, independently of that, as regards beauty and wealth of invention, they are full of marrow and matter as any compositions of the kind, which have appeared in our language. Naturally each workman feels himself more strong in some special part his art, and those are to be regarded as most fortunate, who lay hands on the noblest, for all the parts essential to the construction of any whole are not equally precious. We find elsewhere, perhaps, greater delicacy phrase, greater softness and harmony of language; but imaginative grace, and in the store of pointed wit, I do not think he has been surpassed; and we should take the account that he made these things neither his occupation nor his study, and that he scarcely took a pen in his hand more than once a year, as is shown by the very slender quantity of his remains. For you see here, sir, green wood and dry, without any sort of selection, all that has come into my possession; insomuch that there are among the rest efforts even of his boyhood. In point of fact, he seems to have written them merely to show that he was capable of dealing with all subjects: for otherwise, thousands of times, in the course of ordinary conversation, I have heard things drop from him infinitely more worthy of being admired, infinitely more worthy of being preserved.

¶85 — Such, sir, is what justice and affection, forming in this instance a rare conjunction, oblige me to say of this great and good man; and if I have at all offended by the freedom which I have taken in addressing myself to you on such a subject at such a length, be pleased to recollect that the principal result of greatness and eminence is to lay one open to importunate appeals on behalf of the rest of the world. Herewith, after desiring you to accept my affectionate devotion to your service, I beseech God to vouchsafe you, sir, a fortunate and prolonged life. From Montaigne, this 1st of September 1570.—Your obedient servant,

VII.——To Mademoiselle de Montaigne, my Wife.

¶86 — —[Printed as a preface to the “Consolation of Plutarch to his Wife,” published by Montaigne, with several other tracts by La Boetie, about 1571.]

¶87 — My Wife,—You understand well that it is not proper for a man of the world, according to the rules of this our time, to continue to court and caress you; for they say that a sensible person may take a wife indeed, but that to espouse her is to act like a fool. Let them talk; I adhere for my part the custom of the good old days; I also wear my hair as it used to be then; and, in truth, novelty costs this poor country up to the present moment so dear (and I do not know whether we have reached the highest pitch yet), that everywhere and in everything I renounce the fashion. Let us live, my wife, you and I, in the old French method. Now, you may recollect that the late M. de la Boetie, my brother and inseparable companion, gave me, on his death-bed, all his books and papers, which have remained ever since the most precious part of my effects. I do not wish to keep them niggardly to myself alone, nor do I deserve to have the exclusive use of them; so that I have resolved to communicate them to my friends; and because I have none, I believe, more particularly intimate you, I send you the Consolatory Letter written by Plutarch to his Wife, translated by him into French; regretting much that fortune has made it so suitable a present you, and that, having had but one child, and that a daughter, long looked for, after four years of your married life it was your lot to lose her in the second year of her age. But I leave to Plutarch the duty of comforting you, acquainting you with your duty herein, begging you to put your faith in him for my sake; for he will reveal to you my own ideas, and will express the matter far better than I should myself. Hereupon, my wife, I commend myself very heartily to your good will, and pray God to have you in His keeping. From Paris, this 10th September 1570.—Your good husband,

VIII.——To Monsieur Dupuy,

¶88 — —[This is probably the Claude Dupuy, born at Paris in 1545, and one of the fourteen judges sent into Guienne after the treaty of Fleix in 1580. It was perhaps under these circumstances that Montaigne addressed to him the present letter.]—the King’s Councillor in his Court and Parliament of Paris.

¶89 — Monsieur,—The business of the Sieur de Verres, a prisoner, who is extremely well known to me, deserves, in the arrival at a decision, the exercise of the clemency natural to you, if, in the public interest, you can fairly call it into play. He has done a thing not only excusable, according to the military laws of this age, but necessary and (as we are of opinion) commendable. He committed the act, without doubt, unwillingly and under pressure; there is no other passage of his life which is open to reproach. I beseech you, sir, to lend the matter your attentive consideration; you will find the character of it as I represent it to you. He is persecuted on this crime, in a way which is far worse than the offence itself. If it is likely to be of use to him, I desire to inform you that he is a man brought up in my house, related to several respectable families, and a person who, having led an honourable life, is my particular friend. By saving him you lay me under an extreme obligation. I beg you very humbly to regard him as recommended by me, and, after kissing your hands, I pray God, sir, to grant you a long and happy life. From Castera, this 23d of April 1580. Your affectionate servant, MONTAIGNE.

IX.——To the Jurats of Bordeaux.

¶90 — —[Published from the original among the archives of the town of Bordeaux, M. Gustave Brunet in the Bulletin du Bibliophile, July 1839.]

¶91 — Gentlemen,—I trust that the journey of Monsieur de Cursol will be of advantage to the town. Having in hand a case so just and so favourable, you did all in your power to put the business in good trim; and matters being so well situated, I beg you to excuse my absence for some little time longer, and I will abridge my stay so far as the pressure of my affairs permits. I hope that the delay will be short; however, you will keep me, if you please, in your good grace, and will command me, if the occasion shall arise, in employing me in the public service and in yours. Monsieur de Cursol has also written to me and apprised me of his journey. I humbly commend myself to you, and pray God, gentlemen, to grant you long and happy life. From Montaigne, this 21st of May 1582. Your humble brother and servant, MONTAIGNE.

X.——To the same.

—[The original is among the archives of Toulouse.]

¶92 — Gentlemen,—I have taken my fair share of the satisfaction which you announce to me as feeling at the good despatch of your business, as reported to you by your deputies, and I regard it as a favourable sign that you have made such an auspicious commencement of the year. I hope to join you at the earliest convenient opportunity. I recommend myself very humbly to your gracious consideration, and pray God to grant you, gentlemen, a happy and long life. From Montaigne, this 8th February 1585. Your humble brother and servant, MONTAIGNE.

XI.——To the same.

¶93 — Gentlemen,—I have here received news of you from M. le Marechal. I will not spare either my life or anything else for your service, and will leave it to your judgment whether the assistance I might be able to render by my presence at the forthcoming election, would be worth the risk I should run by going into the town, seeing the bad state it is in, —[This refers to the plague then raging, and which carried off 14,000 persons at Bordeaux.]—particularly for people coming away from so fine an air as this is where I am. I will draw as near to you on Wednesday as I can, that is, to Feuillas, if the malady has not reached that place, where, as I write to M. de la Molte, I shall be very pleased to have the honour of seeing one of you to take your directions, and relieve myself of the credentials which M. le Marechal will give me for you all: commending myself hereupon humbly to your good grace, and praying God to grant you, gentlemen, long and happy life. At Libourne, this 30th of July 1585. Your humble servant and brother, MONTAIGNE.

XII.

¶94 — —[“According to Dr. Payen, this letter belongs to 1588. Its authenticity has been called in question; but wrongly, in our opinion. See ‘Documents inedits’, 1847, p. 12.”—Note in ‘Essais’, ed. Paris, 1854, iv. 381. It does not appear to whom the letter was addressed.]

¶95 — Monseigneur,—You have heard of our baggage being taken from us under our eyes in the forest of Villebois: then, after a good deal of discussion and delay, of the capture being pronounced illegal by the Prince. We dared not, however, proceed on our way, from an uncertainty as to the safety of our persons, which should have been clearly expressed on our passports. The League has done this, M. de Barrant and M. de la Rochefocault; the storm has burst on me, who had my money in my box. I have recovered none of it, and most of my papers and cash—[The French word is hardes, which St. John renders things. But compare Chambers’s “Domestic Annals of Scotland,” 2d ed. i. 48.]—remain in their possession. I have not seen the Prince. Fifty were lost . . . as for the Count of Thorigny, he lost some ver plate and a few articles of clothing. He diverged from his route to pay a visit to the mourning ladies at Montresor, where are the remains of his two brothers and his grandmother, and came to us again in this town, whence we shall resume our journey shortly. The journey to Normandy is postponed. The King has despatched MM. De Bellieure and de la Guiche to M. de Guise to summon him to court; we shall be there on Thursday.

¶96 — From Orleans, this 16th of February, in the morning [1588-9?].—Your very humble servant, MONTAIGNE.

XIII.——To Mademoiselle PAULMIER.

¶97 — —[This letter, at the time of the publication of the variorum edition of 1854, appears to have been in private hands. See vol. iv. p. 382.]

¶98 — Mademoiselle,—My friends know that, from the first moment of our acquaintance, I have destined a copy of my book for you; for I feel that you have done it much honour. The courtesy of M. Paulmier would deprive me of the pleasure of giving it to you now, for he has obliged me since a great deal beyond the worth of my book. You will accept it then, if you please, as having been yours before I owed it to you, and will confer on me the favour of loving it, whether for its own sake or for mine; and I will keep my debt to M. Paulmier undischarged, that I may requite him, if I have at some other time the means of serving him.

XIV.——To the KING, HENRY IV.

¶99 — —[The original is in the French national library, in the Dupuy collection. It was first discovered by M. Achille Jubinal, who printed it with a facsimile of the entire autograph, in 1850. St. John gives the date wrongly as the 1st January 1590.]

¶100 — Sire, It is to be above the weight and crowd of your great and important affairs, to know, as you do, how to lend yourself, and attend to small matters in their turn, according to the duty of your royal dignity, which exposes you at all times to every description and degree of person and employment. Yet, that your Majesty should have deigned to consider my letter, and direct a reply to be made to it, I prefer to owe, less to your strong understanding, than to your kindness of heart. I have always looked forward to your enjoyment of your present fortune, and you may recollect that, even when I had to make confession of itto my cure, I viewed your successes with satisfaction: now, with the greater propriety and freedom, I embrace them affectionately. They serve you where you are as positive matters of fact; but they serve us here no less by the fame which they diffuse: the echo carries as much weight as the blow. We should not be able to derive from the justice of your cause such powerful arguments for the maintenance and reduction of your subjects, as we do from the reports of the success of your undertaking; and then I have to assure your Majesty, that the recent changes to your advantage, which you observe hereabouts, the prosperous issue of your proceedings at Dieppe, have opportunely seconded the honest zeal and marvellous prudence of M. the Marshal de Matignon, from whom I flatter myself that you do not receive day by day accounts of such good and signal services without remembering my assurances and expectations. I look to the next summer, not only for fruits which we may eat, but for those to grow out of our common tranquillity, and that it will pass over our heads with the same even tenor of happiness, dissipating, like its predecessors, all the fine promises with which your adversaries sustain the spirits of their followers. The popular inclinations resemble a tidal wave; if the current once commences in your favour, it will go on of its own force to the end. I could have desired much that the private gain of the soldiers of your army, and the necessity for satisfying them, had not deprived you, especially in this principal town, of the glorious credit of treating your mutinous subjects, in the midst of victory, with greater clemency than their own protectors, and that, as distinguished from a passing and usurped repute, you could have shown them to be really your own, by the exercise of a protection truly paternal and royal. In the conduct of such affairs as you have in hand, men are obliged to have recourse to unusual expedients. It is always seen that they are surmounted by their magnitude and difficulty; it not being found easy to complete the conquest by arms and force, the end has been accomplished by clemency and generosity, excellent lures to draw men particularly towards the just and legitimate side. If there is to be severity and punishment, let it be deferred till success has been assured. A great conqueror of past times boasts that he gave his enemies as great an inducement to love him, as his friends. And here we feel already some effect of the favourable impression produced upon our rebellious towns by the contrast between their rude treatment, and that of those which are loyal to you. Desiring your Majesty a happiness more tangible and less hazardous, and that you may be beloved rather than feared by your people, and believing that your welfare and theirs are of necessity knit together, I rejoice to think that the progress which you make is one towards more practicable conditions of peace, as well as towards victory!

¶101 — Sire, your letter of the last of November came to my hand only just now, when the time which it pleased you to name for meeting you at Tours had already passed. I take it as a singular favour that you should have deigned to desire a visit from so useless a person, but one who is wholly yours, and more so even by affection than from duty. You have acted very commendably in adapting yourself, in the matter of external forms, to your new fortunes; but the preservation of your old affability and frankness in private intercourse is entitled to an equal share of praise. You have condescended to take thought for my age, no less than for the desire which I have to see you, where you may be at rest from these laborious agitations. Will not that be soon at Paris, Sire? and may nothing prevent me from presenting myself there!—Your very humble and very obedient servant and subject, MONTAIGNE.

¶102 — From Montaigne, this 18th of January 1590.

XV.——To the same.

¶103 — —[ This letter is also in the national collection, among the Dupuy papers. It was first printed in the “Journal de l’Instruction Publique,” 4th November 1846.]

¶104 — SIRE,—The letter which it pleased your majesty to write to me on the 20th of July, was not delivered to me till this morning, and found me laid up with a very violent tertian ague, a complaint very common in this part of the country during the last month. Sire, I consider myself greatly honoured by the receipt of your commands, and I have not omitted to communicate to M. the Marshal de Matignon three times most emphatically my intention and obligation to proceed to him, and even so far as to indicate the route by which I proposed to join him secretly, if he thought proper. Having received no answer, I consider that he has weighed the difficulty and risk of the journey to me. Sire, your Majesty dill do me the favour to believe, if you please, that I shall never complain of the expense on occasions where I should not hesitate to devote my life. I have never derived any substantial benefit whatever from the bounty of kings, which I have neither sought nor merited; nor have I had any recompense for the services which I have performed for them: whereof your majesty is in part aware. What I have done for your predecessors I shall do still more readily for you. I am as rich, Sire, as I desire to be. When I shall have exhausted my purse in attendance on your Majesty at Paris, I will take the liberty to tell you, and then, if you should regard me as worthy of being retained any longer in your suite, you will find me more modest in my claims upon you than the humblest of your officers.

¶105 — Sire, I pray God for your prosperity and health. Your very humble and very obedient servant and subject, MONTAIGNE.

¶106 — From Montaigne, this 2d of September 1590.

XVI.——To the Governor of Guienne.

¶107 — Monseigneur,—I have received this morning your letter, which I have communicated to M. de Gourgues, and we have dined together at the house of M.[the mayor] of Bourdeaux. As to the inconvenience of transporting the money named in your memorandum, you see how difficult a thing it is to provide for; but you may be sure that we shall keep as close a watch over it as possible. I used every exertion to discover the man of whom you spoke. He has not been here; and M. de Bordeaux has shown me a letter in which he mentions that he could not come to see the Director of Bordeaux, as he intended, having been informed that you mistrust him. The letter is of the day before yesterday. If I could have found him, I might perhaps have pursued the gentler course, being uncertain of your views; but I entreat you nevertheless to feel no manner of doubt that I refuse to carry out any wishes of yours, and that, where your commands are concerned, I know no distinction of person or matter. I hope that you have in Guienne many as well affected to you as I am. They report that the Nantes galleys are advancing towards Brouage. M. the Marshal de Biron has not yet left. Those who were charged to convey the message to M. d’Usee say that they cannot find him; and I believe that, if he has been here, he is so no longer. We keep a vigilant eye on our gates and guards, and we look after them a little more attentively in your absence, which makes me apprehensive, not merely on account of the preservation of the town, but likewise for your oven sake, knowing that the enemies of the king feel how necessary you are to his service, and how ill we should prosper without you. I am afraid that, in the part where you are, you will be overtaken by so many affairs requiring your attention on every side, that it will take you a long time and involve great difficulty before you have disposed of everything. If there is any important news, I will despatch an express at once, and you may conclude that nothing is stirring if you do not hear from me: at the same time begging you to bear in mind that movements of this kind are wont to be so sudden and unexpected that, if they occur, they will grasp me by the throat, before they say a word. I will do what I can to collect news, and for this purpose I will make a point of visiting and seeing men of every shade of opinion. Down to the present time nothing is stirring. M. de Londel has seen me this morning, and we have been arranging for some advances for the place, where I shall go to-morrow morning. Since I began this letter, I have learnt from Chartreux that two gentlemen, describing themselves as in the service of M. de Guise, and coming from Agen, have passed near Chartreux; but I was not able to ascertain which road they have taken. They are expecting you at Agen. The Sieur de Mauvesin came as far as Canteloup, and thence returned, having got some intelligence. I am in search of one Captain Rous, to whom . . . wrote, trying to draw him into his cause by all sorts of promises. The rumour of the two Nantes galleys ready to descend on Brouage is confirmed as certain; they carry two companies of foot. M. de Mercure is at Nantes. The Sieur de la Courbe said to M. the President Nesmond that M. d’Elbeuf is on this side of Angiers, and lodges with his father. He is drawing towards Lower Poictou with 4000 foot and 400 or 500 horse, having been reinforced by the troops of M. de Brissac and others, and M. de Mercure is to join him. The report goes also that M. du Maine is about to take the command of all the forces they have collected in Auvergne, and that he will cross Le Foret to advance on Rouergue and us, that is to say, on the King of Navarre, against whom all this is being directed. M. de Lansac is at Bourg, and has two war vessels, which remain in attendance on him. His functions are naval. I tell you what I learn, and mix up together the more or less probable hearsay of the town with actual matter of fact, that you may be in possession of everything. I beg you most humbly to return directly affairs may allow you to do so, and assure you that, meanwhile, we shall not spare our labour, or (if that were necessary) our life, to maintain the king’s authority throughout. Monseigneur, I kiss your hands very respectfully, and pray God to have you in His keeping. From Bordeaux, Wednesday night, 22d May (1590-91).—Your very humble servant,

¶108 — Montaigne.

¶109 — I have seen no one from the king of Navarre; they say that M. de Biron has seen him.

 THE AUTHOR TO THE READER.

¶110 — —[Omitted by Cotton.]—

¶111 — READER, thou hast here an honest book; it doth at the outset forewarn thee that, in contriving the same, I have proposed to myself no other than a domestic and private end: I have had no consideration at all either to thy service or to my glory. My powers are not capable of any such design. I have dedicated it to the particular commodity of my kinsfolk and friends, so that, having lost me (which they must do shortly), they may therein recover some traits of my conditions and humours, and by that means preserve more whole, and more life-like, the knowledge they had of me. Had my intention been to seek the world’s favour, I should surely have adorned myself with borrowed beauties: I desire therein to be viewed as I appear in mine own genuine, simple, and ordinary manner, without study and artifice: for it is myself I paint. My defects are therein to be read to the life, and any imperfections and my natural form, so far as public reverence hath permitted me. If I had lived among those nations, which (they say) yet dwell under the sweet liberty of nature’s primitive laws, I assure thee I would most willingly have painted myself quite fully and quite naked. Thus, reader, myself am the matter of my book: there’s no reason thou shouldst employ thy leisure about so frivolous and vain a subject. Therefore farewell.

¶112 — From Montaigne, the 12th June 1580—[So in the edition of 1595; the edition of 1588 has 12th June 1588]

¶113 — From Montaigne, the 1st March 1580.

 —[See Bonnefon, Montaigne, 1893, p. 254.  The book had been licensed for the press on the 9th May previous.  The edition of 1588 has 12th June 1588;]—

Texts:Shakespeare/cw162315 and Texts:Montaigne/Essays/0: Difference between pages

Latest revision as of 10:42, 6 January 2025

ESSAYS OF MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE

Contents

Preface

The Life of Montaigne

I.——To Monsieur de Montaigne

II.——To Monseigneur, Monseigneur de Montaigne.

III.——To Monsieur, Monsieur de Lansac,

IV.——To Monsieur, Monsieur de Mesmes, Lord of Roissy and Malassize, Privy

V.——To Monsieur, Monsieur de L’Hospital, Chancellor of France

VI.——To Monsieur, Monsieur de Folx, Privy Councillor, and Ambassador of His Majesty to the Signory of Venice.

—[ Printed before the ‘Vers Francois’ of Etienne de la Boetie, 8vo, Paris, 1572.]

VII.——To Mademoiselle de Montaigne, my Wife.

VIII.——To Monsieur Dupuy,

IX.——To the Jurats of Bordeaux.

X.——To the same.

—[The original is among the archives of Toulouse.]

XI.——To the same.

XII.

XIII.——To Mademoiselle PAULMIER.

XIV.——To the KING, HENRY IV.

XV.——To the same.

XVI.——To the Governor of Guienne.

Navigation menu

@@ Line 1: / Line 1: @@
-<title>Texts:Shakespeare/cw162315</title>
+{{Top Texts Montaigne}}
+<h1> ESSAYS OF MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE </h1>
+<p style="font-size:20px; text-indent:0;"></p>Translated by Charles Cotton Edited by William Carew Hazlitt • 1877 </p>
-<h2>KING HENRY THE EIGHTH</h2>
+{{Montaigne-nav}}
-<h4>DRAMATIS PERSONAE</h4>
+__TOC__
+<div class="apts">
+<h2> Preface </h2>
-<p>  KING HENRY THE EIGHTH<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: | set=1 }} —  The present publication is intended to supply a recognised deficiency in our literature&mdash;a library edition of the Essays of Montaigne. This great French writer deserves to be regarded as a classic, not only in the land of his birth, but in all countries and in all literatures. His Essays, which are at once the most celebrated and the most permanent of his productions, form a magazine out of which such minds as those of Bacon and Shakespeare did not disdain to help themselves; and, indeed, as Hallam observes, the Frenchman&rsquo;s literary importance largely results from the share which his mind had in influencing other minds, coeval and subsequent. But, at the same time, estimating the value and rank of the essayist, we are not to leave out of the account the drawbacks and the circumstances of the period: the imperfect state of education, the comparative scarcity of books, and the limited opportunities of intellectual intercourse. Montaigne freely borrowed of others, and he has found men willing to borrow of him as freely. We need not wonder at the reputation which he with seeming facility achieved. He was, without being aware of it, the leader of a new school in letters and morals. His book was different from all others which were at that date in the world. It diverted the ancient currents of thought into new channels. It told its readers, with unexampled frankness, what its writer&rsquo;s opinion was about men and things, and threw what must have been a strange kind of new light on many matters but darkly understood. Above all, the essayist uncased himself, and made his intellectual and physical organism public property. He took the world into his confidence on all subjects. His essays were a sort of literary anatomy, where we get a diagnosis of the writer&rsquo;s mind, made by himself at different levels and under a large variety of operating influences. </p>
-  CARDINAL WOLSEY               CARDINAL CAMPEIUS<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Of all egotists, Montaigne, if not the greatest, was the most fascinating, because, perhaps, he was the least affected and most truthful. What he did, and what he had professed to do, was to dissect his mind, and show us, as best he could, how it was made, and what relation it bore to external objects. He investigated his mental structure as a schoolboy pulls his watch to pieces, to examine the mechanism of the works; and the result, accompanied by illustrations abounding with originality and force, he delivered to his fellow-men in a book. </p>
-  CAPUCIUS, Ambassador from the Emperor Charles V<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Eloquence, rhetorical effect, poetry, were alike remote from his design. He did not write from necessity, scarcely perhaps for fame. But he desired to leave France, nay, and the world, something to be remembered by, something which should tell what kind of a man he was&mdash;what he felt, thought, suffered&mdash;and he succeeded immeasurably, I apprehend, beyond his expectations. </p>
-  CRANMER, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  It was reasonable enough that Montaigne should expect for his work a certain share of celebrity in Gascony, and even, as time went on, throughout France; but it is scarcely probable that he foresaw how his renown was to become world-wide; how he was to occupy an almost unique position as a man of letters and a moralist; how the Essays would be read, in all the principal languages of Europe, by millions of intelligent human beings, who never heard of Perigord or the League, and who are in doubt, if they are questioned, whether the author lived in the sixteenth or the eighteenth century. This is true fame. A man of genius belongs to no period and no country. He speaks the language of nature, which is always everywhere the same. </p>
-  DUKE OF NORFOLK               DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  The text of these volumes is taken from the first edition of Cotton&rsquo;s version, printed in 3 vols. 8vo, 1685-6, and republished in 1693, 1700, 1711, 1738, and 1743, in the same number of volumes and the same size. In the earliest impression the errors of the press are corrected merely as far as page 240 of the first volume, and all the editions follow one another. That of 1685-6 was the only one which the translator lived to see. He died in 1687, leaving behind him an interesting and little-known collection of poems, which appeared posthumously, 8vo, 1689. </p>
-  DUKE OF SUFFOLK               EARL OF SURREY<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  It was considered imperative to correct Cotton&rsquo;s translation by a careful collation with the &lsquo;variorum&rsquo; edition of the original, Paris, 1854, 4 vols. 8vo or 12mo, and parallel passages from Florin&rsquo;s earlier undertaking have occasionally been inserted at the foot of the page. A Life of the Author and all his recovered Letters, sixteen in number, have also been given; but, as regards the correspondence, it can scarcely be doubted that it is in a purely fragmentary state. To do more than furnish a sketch of the leading incidents in Montaigne&rsquo;s life seemed, in the presence of Bayle St. John&rsquo;s charming and able biography, an attempt as difficult as it was useless. </p>
-  LORD CHAMBERLAIN              LORD CHANCELLOR<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  The besetting sin of both Montaigne&rsquo;s translators seems to have been a propensity for reducing his language and phraseology to the language and phraseology of the age and country to which they belonged, and, moreover, inserting paragraphs and words, not here and there only, but constantly and habitually, from an evident desire and view to elucidate or strengthen their author&rsquo;s meaning. The result has generally been unfortunate; and I have, in the case of all these interpolations on Cotton&rsquo;s part, felt bound, where I did not cancel them, to throw them down into the notes, not thinking it right that Montaigne should be allowed any longer to stand sponsor for what he never wrote; and reluctant, on the other hand, to suppress the intruding matter entirely, where it appeared to possess a value of its own. </p>
-  GARDINER, BISHOP OF WINCHESTER<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Nor is redundancy or paraphrase the only form of transgression in Cotton, for there are places in his author which he thought proper to omit, and it is hardly necessary to say that the restoration of all such matter to the text was considered essential to its integrity and completeness. </p>
-  BISHOP OF LINCOLN             LORD ABERGAVENNY<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  My warmest thanks are due to my father, Mr Registrar Hazlitt, the author of the well-known and excellent edition of Montaigne published in 1842, for the important assistance which he has rendered to me in verifying and retranslating the quotations, which were in a most corrupt state, and of which Cotton&rsquo;s English versions were singularly loose and inexact, and for the zeal with which he has co-operated with me in collating the English text, line for line and word for word, with the best French edition. </p>
-  LORD SANDYS                   SIR HENRY GUILDFORD<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  By the favour of Mr F. W. Cosens, I have had by me, while at work on this subject, the copy of Cotgrave&rsquo;s Dictionary, folio, 1650, which belonged to Cotton. It has his autograph and copious MSS. notes, nor is it too much to presume that it is the very book employed by him in his translation. </p>
-  SIR THOMAS LOVELL             SIR ANTHONY DENNY<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  W. C. H. </p>
-  SIR NICHOLAS VAUX             SECRETARIES to Wolsey<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Kensington, November 1877. </p>
-  CROMWELL, servant to Wolsey<br/>
+<h2> The Life of Montaigne </h2>
-  GRIFFITH, gentleman-usher to Queen Katharine<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: | set=1 }} —  [This is translated freely from that prefixed to the &lsquo;variorum&rsquo; Paris edition, 1854, 4 vols. 8vo. This biography is the more desirable that it contains all really interesting and important matter in the journal of the Tour in Germany and Italy, which, as it was merely written under Montaigne&rsquo;s dictation, is in the third person, is scarcely worth publication, as a whole, in an English dress.] </p>
-  THREE GENTLEMEN<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  The author of the Essays was born, as he informs us himself, between eleven and twelve o&rsquo;clock in the day, the last of February 1533, at the chateau of St. Michel de Montaigne. His father, Pierre Eyquem, esquire, was successively first Jurat of the town of Bordeaux (1530), Under-Mayor 1536, Jurat for the second time in 1540, Procureur in 1546, and at length Mayor from 1553 to 1556. He was a man of austere probity, who had &ldquo;a particular regard for honour and for propriety in his person and attire . . . a mighty good faith in his speech, and a conscience and a religious feeling inclining to superstition, rather than to the other extreme."[Essays, ii. 2.] Pierre Eyquem bestowed great care on the education of his children, especially on the practical side of it. To associate closely his son Michel with the people, and attach him to those who stand in need of assistance, he caused him to be held at the font by persons of meanest position; subsequently he put him out to nurse with a poor villager, and then, at a later period, made him accustom himself to the most common sort of living, taking care, nevertheless, to cultivate his mind, and superintend its development without the exercise of undue rigour or constraint. Michel, who gives us the minutest account of his earliest years, charmingly narrates how they used to awake him by the sound of some agreeable music, and how he learned Latin, without suffering the rod or shedding a tear, before beginning French, thanks to the German teacher whom his father had placed near him, and who never addressed him except in the language of Virgil and Cicero. The study of Greek took precedence. At six years of age young Montaigne went to the College of Guienne at Bordeaux, where he had as preceptors the most eminent scholars of the sixteenth century, Nicolas Grouchy, Guerente, Muret, and Buchanan. At thirteen he had passed through all the classes, and as he was destined for the law he left school to study that science. He was then about fourteen, but these early years of his life are involved in obscurity. The next information that we have is that in 1554 he received the appointment of councillor in the Parliament of Bordeaux; in 1559 he was at Bar-le-Duc with the court of Francis II, and in the year following he was present at Rouen to witness the declaration of the majority of Charles IX. We do not know in what manner he was engaged on these occasions. </p>
-  DOCTOR BUTTS, physician to the King<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Between 1556 and 1563 an important incident occurred in the life of Montaigne, in the commencement of his romantic friendship with Etienne de la Boetie, whom he had met, as he tells us, by pure chance at some festive celebration in the town. From their very first interview the two found themselves drawn irresistibly close to one another, and during six years this alliance was foremost in the heart of Montaigne, as it was afterwards in his memory, when death had severed it. </p>
-  GARTER KING-AT-ARMS<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Although he blames severely in his own book [Essays, i. 27.] those who, contrary to the opinion of Aristotle, marry before five-and-thirty, Montaigne did not wait for the period fixed by the philosopher of Stagyra, but in 1566, in his thirty-third year, he espoused Francoise de Chassaigne, daughter of a councillor in the Parliament of Bordeaux. The history of his early married life vies in obscurity with that of his youth. His biographers are not agreed among themselves; and in the same degree that he lays open to our view all that concerns his secret thoughts, the innermost mechanism of his mind, he observes too much reticence in respect to his public functions and conduct, and his social relations. The title of Gentleman in Ordinary to the King, which he assumes, in a preface, and which Henry II. gives him in a letter, which we print a little farther on; what he says as to the commotions of courts, where he passed a portion of his life; the Instructions which he wrote under the dictation of Catherine de Medici for King Charles IX., and his noble correspondence with Henry IV., leave no doubt, however, as to the part which he played in the transactions of those times, and we find an unanswerable proof of the esteem in which he was held by the most exalted personages, in a letter which was addressed to him by Charles at the time he was admitted to the Order of St. Michael, which was, as he informs us himself, the highest honour of the French noblesse. </p>
-  SURVEYOR to the Duke of Buckingham<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  According to Lacroix du Maine, Montaigne, upon the death of his eldest brother, resigned his post of Councillor, in order to adopt the military profession, while, if we might credit the President Bouhier, he never discharged any functions connected with arms. However, several passages in the Essays seem to indicate that he not only took service, but that he was actually in numerous campaigns with the Catholic armies. Let us add, that on his monument he is represented in a coat of mail, with his casque and gauntlets on his right side, and a lion at his feet, all which signifies, in the language of funeral emblems, that the departed has been engaged in some important military transactions. </p>
-  BRANDON, and a SERGEANT-AT-ARMS<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  However it may be as to these conjectures, our author, having arrived at his thirty-eighth year, resolved to dedicate to study and contemplation the remaining term of his life; and on his birthday, the last of February 1571, he caused a philosophical inscription, in Latin, to be placed upon one of the walls of his chateau, where it is still to be seen, and of which the translation is to this effect:&mdash;&ldquo;In the year of Christ . . . in his thirty-eighth year, on the eve of the Calends of March, his birthday, Michel Montaigne, already weary of court employments and public honours, withdrew himself entirely into the converse of the learned virgins where he intends to spend the remaining moiety of the to allotted to him in tranquil seclusion.&rdquo; </p>
-  DOORKEEPER Of the Council chamber<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  At the time to which we have come, Montaigne was unknown to the world of letters, except as a translator and editor. In 1569 he had published a translation of the &ldquo;Natural Theology&rdquo; of Raymond de Sebonde, which he had solely undertaken to please his father. In 1571 he had caused to be printed at Paris certain &lsquo;opuscucla&rsquo; of Etienne de la Boetie; and these two efforts, inspired in one case by filial duty, and in the other by friendship, prove that affectionate motives overruled with him mere personal ambition as a literary man. We may suppose that he began to compose the Essays at the very outset of his retirement from public engagements; for as, according to his own account, observes the President Bouhier, he cared neither for the chase, nor building, nor gardening, nor agricultural pursuits, and was exclusively occupied with reading and reflection, he devoted himself with satisfaction to the task of setting down his thoughts just as they occurred to him. Those thoughts became a book, and the first part of that book, which was to confer immortality on the writer, appeared at Bordeaux in 1580. Montaigne was then fifty-seven; he had suffered for some years past from renal colic and gravel; and it was with the necessity of distraction from his pain, and the hope of deriving relief from the waters, that he undertook at this time a great journey. As the account which he has left of his travels in Germany and Italy comprises some highly interesting particulars of his life and personal history, it seems worth while to furnish a sketch or analysis of it. </p>
-  PORTER, and his MAN           PAGE to Gardiner<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  &ldquo;The Journey, of which we proceed to describe the course simply,&rdquo; says the editor of the Itinerary, &ldquo;had, from Beaumont-sur-Oise to Plombieres, in Lorraine, nothing sufficiently interesting to detain us . . . we must go as far, as Basle, of which we have a description, acquainting us with its physical and political condition at that period, as well as with the character of its baths. The passage of Montaigne through Switzerland is not without interest, as we see there how our philosophical traveller accommodated himself everywhere to the ways of the country. The hotels, the provisions, the Swiss cookery, everything, was agreeable to him; it appears, indeed, as if he preferred to the French manners and tastes those of the places he was visiting, and of which the simplicity and freedom (or frankness) accorded more with his own mode of life and thinking. In the towns where he stayed, Montaigne took care to see the Protestant divines, to make himself conversant with all their dogmas. He even had disputations with them occasionally. </p>
-  A CRIER<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  &ldquo;Having left Switzerland he went to Isne, an imperial then on to Augsburg and Munich. He afterwards proceeded to the Tyrol, where he was agreeably surprised, after the warnings which he had received, at the very slight inconveniences which he suffered, which gave him occasion to remark that he had all his life distrusted the statements of others respecting foreign countries, each person&rsquo;s tastes being according to the notions of his native place; and that he had consequently set very little on what he was told beforehand. </p>
-</p>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  &ldquo;Upon his arrival at Botzen, Montaigne wrote to Francois Hottmann, to say that he had been so pleased with his visit to Germany that he quitted it with great regret, although it was to go into Italy. He then passed through Brunsol, Trent, where he put up at the Rose; thence going to Rovera; and here he first lamented the scarcity of crawfish, but made up for the loss by partaking of truffles cooked in oil and vinegar; oranges, citrons, and olives, in all of which he delighted.&rdquo; </p>
-<p>  QUEEN KATHARINE, wife to King Henry, afterwards divorced<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  After passing a restless night, when he bethought himself in the morning that there was some new town or district to be seen, he rose, we are told, with alacrity and pleasure. </p>
-  ANNE BULLEN, her Maid of Honour, afterwards Queen<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  His secretary, to whom he dictated his Journal, assures us that he never saw him take so much interest in surrounding scenes and persons, and believes that the complete change helped to mitigate his sufferings in concentrating his attention on other points. When there was a complaint made that he had led his party out of the beaten route, and then returned very near the spot from which they started, his answer was that he had no settled course, and that he merely proposed to himself to pay visits to places which he had not seen, and so long as they could not convict him of traversing the same path twice, or revisiting a point already seen, he could perceive no harm in his plan. As to Rome, he cared less to go there, inasmuch as everybody went there; and he said that he never had a lacquey who could not tell him all about Florence or Ferrara. He also would say that he seemed to himself like those who are reading some pleasant story or some fine book, of which they fear to come to the end: he felt so much pleasure in travelling that he dreaded the moment of arrival at the place where they were to stop for the night. </p>
-  AN OLD LADY, friend to Anne Bullen<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  We see that Montaigne travelled, just as he wrote, completely at his ease, and without the least constraint, turning, just as he fancied, from the common or ordinary roads taken by tourists. The good inns, the soft beds, the fine views, attracted his notice at every point, and in his observations on men and things he confines himself chiefly to the practical side. The consideration of his health was constantly before him, and it was in consequence of this that, while at Venice, which disappointed him, he took occasion to note, for the benefit of readers, that he had an attack of colic, and that he evacuated two large stones after supper. On quitting Venice, he went in succession to Ferrara, Rovigo, Padua, Bologna (where he had a stomach-ache), Florence, &amp;c.; and everywhere, before alighting, he made it a rule to send some of his servants to ascertain where the best accommodation was to be had. He pronounced the Florentine women the finest in the world, but had not an equally good opinion of the food, which was less plentiful than in Germany, and not so well served. He lets us understand that in Italy they send up dishes without dressing, but in Germany they were much better seasoned, and served with a variety of sauces and gravies. He remarked further, that the glasses were singularly small and the wines insipid. </p>
-  PATIENCE, woman to Queen Katharine<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  After dining with the Grand-Duke of Florence, Montaigne passed rapidly over the intermediate country, which had no fascination for him, and arrived at Rome on the last day of November, entering by the Porta del Popolo, and putting up at Bear. But he afterwards hired, at twenty crowns a month, fine furnished rooms in the house of a Spaniard, who included in these terms the use of the kitchen fire. What most annoyed him in the Eternal City was the number of Frenchmen he met, who all saluted him in his native tongue; but otherwise he was very comfortable, and his stay extended to five months. A mind like his, full of grand classical reflections, could not fail to be profoundly impressed in the presence of the ruins at Rome, and he has enshrined in a magnificent passage of the Journal the feelings of the moment: &ldquo;He said,&rdquo; writes his secretary, &ldquo;that at Rome one saw nothing but the sky under which she had been built, and the outline of her site: that the knowledge we had of her was abstract, contemplative, not palpable to the actual senses: that those who said they beheld at least the ruins of Rome, went too far, for the ruins of so gigantic a structure must have commanded greater reverence-it was nothing but her sepulchre. The world, jealous of her, prolonged empire, had in the first place broken to pieces that admirable body, and then, when they perceived that the remains attracted worship and awe, had buried the very wreck itself.&mdash;[Compare a passage in one of Horace Walpole&rsquo;s letters to Richard West, 22 March 1740 (Cunningham&rsquo;s edit. i. 41), where Walpole, speaking of Rome, describes her very ruins as ruined.]&mdash;As to those small fragments which were still to be seen on the surface, notwithstanding the assaults of time and all other attacks, again and again repeated, they had been favoured by fortune to be some slight evidence of that infinite grandeur which nothing could entirely extingish. But it was likely that these disfigured remains were the least entitled to attention, and that the enemies of that immortal renown, in their fury, had addressed themselves in the first instance to the destruction of what was most beautiful and worthiest of preservation; and that the buildings of this bastard Rome, raised upon the ancient productions, although they might excite the admiration of the present age, reminded him of the crows&rsquo; and sparrows&rsquo; nests built in the walls and arches of the old churches, destroyed by the Huguenots. Again, he was apprehensive, seeing the space which this grave occupied, that the whole might not have been recovered, and that the burial itself had been buried. And, moreover, to see a wretched heap of rubbish, as pieces of tile and pottery, grow (as it had ages since) to a height equal to that of Mount Gurson,&mdash;[In Perigord.]&mdash;and thrice the width of it, appeared to show a conspiracy of destiny against the glory and pre-eminence of that city, affording at the same time a novel and extraordinary proof of its departed greatness. He (Montaigne) observed that it was difficult to believe considering the limited area taken up by any of her seven hills and particularly the two most favoured ones, the Capitoline and the Palatine, that so many buildings stood on the site. Judging only from what is left of the Temple of Concord, along the &lsquo;Forum Romanum&rsquo;, of which the fall seems quite recent, like that of some huge mountain split into horrible crags, it does not look as if more than two such edifices could have found room on the Capitoline, on which there were at one period from five-and-twenty to thirty temples, besides private dwellings. But, in point of fact, there is scarcely any probability of the views which we take of the city being correct, its plan and form having changed infinitely; for instance, the &lsquo;Velabrum&rsquo;, which on account of its depressed level, received the sewage of the city, and had a lake, has been raised by artificial accumulation to a height with the other hills, and Mount Savello has, in truth, grown simply out of the ruins of the theatre of Marcellus. He believed that an ancient Roman would not recognise the place again. It often happened that in digging down into earth the workmen came upon the crown of some lofty column, which, though thus buried, was still standing upright. The people there have no recourse to other foundations than the vaults and arches of the old houses, upon which, as on slabs of rock, they raise their modern palaces. It is easy to see that several of the ancient streets are thirty feet below those at present in use.&rdquo; </p>
-</p>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Sceptical as Montaigne shows himself in his books, yet during his sojourn at Rome he manifested a great regard for religion. He solicited the honour of being admitted to kiss the feet of the Holy Father, Gregory XIII.; and the Pontiff exhorted him always to continue in the devotion which he had hitherto exhibited to the Church and the service of the Most Christian King. </p>
-<p>  Lord Mayor, Aldermen, Lords and Ladies in the Dumb<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  &ldquo;After this, one sees,&rdquo; says the editor of the Journal, &ldquo;Montaigne employing all his time in making excursions bout the neighbourhood on horseback or on foot, in visits, in observations of every kind. The churches, the stations, the processions even, the sermons; then the palaces, the vineyards, the gardens, the public amusements, as the Carnival, &amp;c.&mdash;nothing was overlooked. He saw a Jewish child circumcised, and wrote down a most minute account of the operation. He met at San Sisto a Muscovite ambassador, the second who had come to Rome since the pontificate of Paul III. This minister had despatches from his court for Venice, addressed to the &lsquo;Grand Governor of the Signory&rsquo;. The court of Muscovy had at that time such limited relations with the other powers of Europe, and it was so imperfect in its information, that it thought Venice to be a dependency of the Holy See.&rdquo; </p>
-       Shows; Women attending upon the Queen; Scribes,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Of all the particulars with which he has furnished us during his stay at Rome, the following passage in reference to the Essays is not the least singular: &ldquo;The Master of the Sacred Palace returned him his Essays, castigated in accordance with the views of the learned monks. &lsquo;He had only been able to form a judgment of them,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;through a certain French monk, not understanding French himself&rsquo;&rdquo;&mdash;we leave Montaigne himself to tell the story&mdash;&ldquo;and he received so complacently my excuses and explanations on each of the passages which had been animadverted upon by the French monk, that he concluded by leaving me at liberty to revise the text agreeably to the dictates of my own conscience. I begged him, on the contrary, to abide by the opinion of the person who had criticised me, confessing, among other matters, as, for example, in my use of the word fortune, in quoting historical poets, in my apology for Julian, in my animadversion on the theory that he who prayed ought to be exempt from vicious inclinations for the time being; item, in my estimate of cruelty, as something beyond simple death; item, in my view that a child ought to be brought up to do everything, and so on; that these were my opinions, which I did not think wrong; as to other things, I said that the corrector understood not my meaning. The Master, who is a clever man, made many excuses for me, and gave me to suppose that he did not concur in the suggested improvements; and pleaded very ingeniously for me in my presence against another (also an Italian) who opposed my sentiments.&rdquo; </p>
-       Officers, Guards, and other Attendants; Spirits<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Such is what passed between Montaigne and these two personages at that time; but when the Essayist was leaving, and went to bid them farewell, they used very different language to him. &ldquo;They prayed me,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;to pay no attention to the censure passed on my book, in which other French persons had apprised them that there were many foolish things; adding, that they honoured my affectionate intention towards the Church, and my capacity; and had so high an opinion of my candour and conscientiousness that they should leave it to me to make such alterations as were proper in the book, when I reprinted it; among other things, the word fortune. To excuse themselves for what they had said against my book, they instanced works of our time by cardinals and other divines of excellent repute which had been blamed for similar faults, which in no way affected reputation of the author, or of the publication as a whole; they requested me to lend the Church the support of my eloquence (this was their fair speech), and to make longer stay in the place, where I should be free from all further intrusion on their part. It seemed to me that we parted very good friends.&rdquo; </p>
-</p>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Before quitting Rome, Montaigne received his diploma of citizenship, by which he was greatly flattered; and after a visit to Tivoli he set out for Loretto, stopping at Ancona, Fano, and Urbino. He arrived at the beginning of May 1581, at Bagno della Villa, where he established himself, order to try the waters. There, we find in the Journal, of his own accord the Essayist lived in the strictest conformity with the regime, and henceforth we only hear of diet, the effect which the waters had by degrees upon system, of the manner in which he took them; in a word, he does not omit an item of the circumstances connected with his daily routine, his habit of body, his baths, and the rest. It was no longer the journal of a traveller which he kept, but the diary of an invalid,&mdash;[&ldquo;I am reading Montaigne&rsquo;s Travels, which have lately been found; there is little in them but the baths and medicines he took, and what he had everywhere for dinner.&rdquo;&mdash;H. Walpole to Sir Horace Mann, June 8, 1774.]&mdash;attentive to the minutest details of the cure which he was endeavouring to accomplish: a sort of memorandum book, in which he was noting down everything that he felt and did, for the benefit of his medical man at home, who would have the care of his health on his return, and the attendance on his subsequent infirmities. Montaigne gives it as his reason and justification for enlarging to this extent here, that he had omitted, to his regret, to do so in his visits to other baths, which might have saved him the trouble of writing at such great length now; but it is perhaps a better reason in our eyes, that what he wrote he wrote for his own use. </p>
-<h4>                          SCENE:</h4>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  We find in these accounts, however, many touches which are valuable as illustrating the manners of the place. The greater part of the entries in the Journal, giving the account of these waters, and of the travels, down to Montaigne&rsquo;s arrival at the first French town on his homeward route, are in Italian, because he wished to exercise himself in that language. </p>
-<p>              London; Westminster; Kimbolton</p>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  The minute and constant watchfulness of Montaigne over his health and over himself might lead one to suspect that excessive fear of death which degenerates into cowardice. But was it not rather the fear of the operation for the stone, at that time really formidable? Or perhaps he was of the same way of thinking with the Greek poet, of whom Cicero reports this saying: &ldquo;I do not desire to die; but the thought of being dead is indifferent to me.&rdquo; Let us hear, however, what he says himself on this point very frankly: &ldquo;It would be too weak and unmanly on my part if, certain as I am of always finding myself in the position of having to succumb in that way,&mdash;[To the stone or gravel.]&mdash;and death coming nearer and nearer to me, I did not make some effort, before the time came, to bear the trial with fortitude. For reason prescribes that we should joyfully accept what it may please God to send us. Therefore the only remedy, the only rule, and the sole doctrine for avoiding the evils by which mankind is surrounded, whatever they are, is to resolve to bear them so far as our nature permits, or to put an end to them courageously and promptly.&rdquo; </p>
-<h4>                 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH</h4>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  He was still at the waters of La Villa, when, on the 7th September 1581, he learned by letter that he had been elected Mayor of Bordeaux on the 1st August preceding. This intelligence made him hasten his departure; and from Lucca he proceeded to Rome. He again made some stay in that city, and he there received the letter of the jurats of Bordeaux, notifying to him officially his election to the Mayoralty, and inviting him to return as speedily as possible. He left for France, accompanied by young D&rsquo;Estissac and several other gentlemen, who escorted him a considerable distance; but none went back to France with him, not even his travelling companion. He passed by Padua, Milan, Mont Cenis, and Chambery; thence he went on to Lyons, and lost no time in repairing to his chateau, after an absence of seventeen months and eight days. </p>
-<h4>                     THE PROLOGUE.</h4>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  We have just seen that, during his absence in Italy, the author of the Essays was elected mayor of Bordeaux. &ldquo;The gentlemen of Bordeaux,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;elected me Mayor of their town while I was at a distance from France, and far from the thought of such a thing. I excused myself; but they gave to understand that I was wrong in so doing, it being also the command of the king that I should stand.&rdquo; This the letter which Henry III. wrote to him on the occasion: </p>
-<p>    I come no more to make you laugh; things now<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  MONSIEUR, DE MONTAIGNE,&mdash;Inasmuch as I hold in great esteem your fidelity and zealous devotion to my service, it has been a pleasure to me to learn that you have been chosen mayor of my town of Bordeaux. I have had the agreeable duty of confirming the selection, and I did so the more willingly, seeing that it was made during your distant absence; wherefore it is my desire, and I require and command you expressly that you proceed without delay to enter on the duties to which you have received so legitimate a call. And so you will act in a manner very agreeable to me, while the contrary will displease me greatly. Praying God, M. de Montaigne, to have you in his holy keeping. </p>
-    That bear a weighty and a serious brow,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  &ldquo;Written at Paris, the 25th day of November 1581. </p>
-    Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  &ldquo;Henri. </p>
-    Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  &ldquo;A Monsieur de Montaigne, Knight of my Order, Gentleman in Ordinary of my Chamber, being at present in Rome.&rdquo; </p>
-    We now present. Those that can pity here<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Montaigne, in his new employment, the most important in the province, obeyed the axiom, that a man may not refuse a duty, though it absorb his time and attention, and even involve the sacrifice of his blood. Placed between two extreme parties, ever on the point of getting to blows, he showed himself in practice what he is in his book, the friend of a middle and temperate policy. Tolerant by character and on principle, he belonged, like all the great minds of the sixteenth century, to that political sect which sought to improve, without destroying, institutions; and we may say of him, what he himself said of La Boetie, &ldquo;that he had that maxim indelibly impressed on his mind, to obey and submit himself religiously to the laws under which he was born. Affectionately attached to the repose of his country, an enemy to changes and innovations, he would have preferred to employ what means he had towards their discouragement and suppression, than in promoting their success.&rdquo; Such was the platform of his administration. </p>
-    May, if they think it well, let fall a tear:<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  He applied himself, in an especial manner, to the maintenance of peace between the two religious factions which at that time divided the town of Bordeaux; and at the end of his two first years of office, his grateful fellow-citizens conferred on him (in 1583) the mayoralty for two years more, a distinction which had been enjoyed, as he tells us, only twice before. On the expiration of his official career, after four years&rsquo; duration, he could say fairly enough of himself that he left behind him neither hatred nor cause of offence. </p>
-    The subject will deserve it. Such as give<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  In the midst of the cares of government, Montaigne found time to revise and enlarge his Essays, which, since their appearance in 1580, were continually receiving augmentation in the form of additional chapters or papers. Two more editions were printed in 1582 and 1587; and during this time the author, while making alterations in the original text, had composed part of the Third Book. He went to Paris to make arrangements for the publication of his enlarged labours, and a fourth impression in 1588 was the result. He remained in the capital some time on this occasion, and it was now that he met for the first time Mademoiselle de Gournay. Gifted with an active and inquiring spirit, and, above all, possessing a sound and healthy tone of mind, Mademoiselle de Gournay had been carried from her childhood with that tide which set in with sixteenth century towards controversy, learning, and knowledge. She learnt Latin without a master; and when, the age of eighteen, she accidentally became possessor of a copy of the Essays, she was transported with delight and admiration. </p>
-    Their money out of hope they may believe<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  She quitted the chateau of Gournay, to come and see him. We cannot do better, in connection with this journey of sympathy, than to repeat the words of Pasquier: &ldquo;That young lady, allied to several great and noble families of Paris, proposed to herself no other marriage than with her honour, enriched with the knowledge gained from good books, and, beyond all others, from the essays of M. de Montaigne, who making in the year 1588 a lengthened stay in the town of Paris, she went there for the purpose of forming his personal acquaintance; and her mother, Madame de Gournay, and herself took him back with them to their chateau, where, at two or three different times, he spent three months altogether, most welcome of visitors.&rdquo; It was from this moment that Mademoiselle de Gournay dated her adoption as Montaigne&rsquo;s daughter, a circumstance which has tended to confer immortality upon her in a far greater measure than her own literary productions. </p>
-    May here find truth too. Those that come to see<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Montaigne, on leaving Paris, stayed a short time at Blois, to attend the meeting of the States-General. We do not know what part he took in that assembly: but it is known that he was commissioned, about this period, to negotiate between Henry of Navarre (afterwards Henry IV.) and the Duke of Guise. His political life is almost a blank; but De Thou assures us that Montaigne enjoyed the confidence of the principal persons of his time. De Thou, who calls him a frank man without constraint, tells us that, walking with him and Pasquier in the court at the Castle of Blois, he heard him pronounce some very remarkable opinions on contemporary events, and he adds that Montaigne had foreseen that the troubles in France could not end without witnessing the death of either the King of Navarre or of the Duke of Guise. He had made himself so completely master of the views of these two princes, that he told De Thou that the King of Navarre would have been prepared to embrace Catholicism, if he had not been afraid of being abandoned by his party, and that the Duke of Guise, on his part, had no particular repugnance to the Confession of Augsburg, for which the Cardinal of Lorraine, his uncle, had inspired him with a liking, if it had not been for the peril involved in quitting the Romish communion. It would have been easy for Montaigne to play, as we call it, a great part in politics, and create for himself a lofty position but his motto was, &lsquo;Otio et Libertati&rsquo;; and he returned quietly home to compose a chapter for his next edition on inconveniences of Greatness. </p>
-    Only a show or two, and so agree<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  The author of the Essays was now fifty-five. The malady which tormented him grew only worse and worse with years; and yet he occupied himself continually with reading, meditating, and composition. He employed the years 1589, 1590, and 1591 in making fresh additions to his book; and even in the approaches of old age he might fairly anticipate many happy hours, when he was attacked by quinsy, depriving him of the power utterance. Pasquier, who has left us some details his last hours, narrates that he remained three days in full possession of his faculties, but unable to speak, so that, in order to make known his desires, he was obliged to resort to writing; and as he felt his end drawing near, he begged his wife to summon certain of the gentlemen who lived in the neighbourhood to bid them a last farewell. When they had arrived, he caused mass to be celebrated in apartment; and just as the priest was elevating the host, Montaigne fell forward with his arms extended in front of him, on the bed, and so expired. He was in his sixtieth year. It was the 13th September 1592. </p>
-    The play may pass, if they be still and willing,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Montaigne was buried near his own house; but a few years after his decease, his remains were removed to the church of a Commandery of St. Antoine at Bordeaux, where they still continue. His monument was restored in 1803 by a descendant. It was seen about 1858 by an English traveller (Mr. St. John).&rsquo;&mdash;[&ldquo;Montaigne the Essayist,&rdquo; by Bayle St. John, 1858, 2 vols. 8vo, is one of most delightful books of the kind.]&mdash; and was then in good preservation. </p>
-    I'll undertake may see away their shilling<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  In 1595 Mademoiselle de Gournay published a new edition of Montaigne&rsquo;s Essays, and the first with the latest emendations of the author, from a copy presented to her by his widow, and which has not been recovered, although it is known to have been in existence some years after the date of the impression, made on its authority. </p>
-    Richly in two short hours. Only they<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Coldly as Montaigne&rsquo;s literary productions appear to have been received by the generation immediately succeeding his own age, his genius grew into just appreciation in the seventeenth century, when such great spirits arose as La Bruyere, Moliere, La Fontaine, Madame de Sevigne. &ldquo;O,&rdquo; exclaimed the Chatelaine des Rochers, &ldquo;what capital company he is, the dear man! he is my old friend; and just for the reason that he is so, he always seems new. My God! how full is that book of sense!&rdquo; Balzac said that he had carried human reason as far and as high as it could go, both in politics and in morals. On the other hand, Malebranche and the writers of Port Royal were against him; some reprehended the licentiousness of his writings; others their impiety, materialism, epicureanism. Even Pascal, who had carefully read the Essays, and gained no small profit by them, did not spare his reproaches. But Montaigne has outlived detraction. As time has gone on, his admirers and borrowers have increased in number, and his Jansenism, which recommended him to the eighteenth century, may not be his least recommendation in the nineteenth. Here we have certainly, on the whole, a first-class man, and one proof of his masterly genius seems to be, that his merits and his beauties are sufficient to induce us to leave out of consideration blemishes and faults which would have been fatal to an inferior writer. </p> <pre xml:space="preserve"> THE LETTERS OF MONTAIGNE. </pre>
-    That come to hear a merry bawdy play,<br/>
-    A noise of targets, or to see a fellow<br/>
+<h3> I.&mdash;&mdash;To Monsieur de Montaigne </h3>
-    In a long motley coat guarded with yellow,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  [This account of the death of La Boetie begins imperfectly. It first appeared in a little volume of Miscellanies in 1571. See Hazlitt, ubi sup. p. 630.]&mdash;As to his last words, doubtless, if any man can give good account of them, it is I, both because, during the whole of his sickness he conversed as fully with me as with any one, and also because, in consequence of the singular and brotherly friendship which we had entertained for each other, I was perfectly acquainted with the intentions, opinions, and wishes which he had formed in the course of his life, as much so, certainly, as one man can possibly be with those of another man; and because I knew them to be elevated, virtuous, full of steady resolution, and (after all said) admirable. I well foresaw that, if his illness permitted him to express himself, he would allow nothing to fall from him, in such an extremity, that was not replete with good example. I consequently took every care in my power to treasure what was said. True it is, Monseigneur, as my memory is not only in itself very short, but in this case affected by the trouble which I have undergone, through so heavy and important a loss, that I have forgotten a number of things which I should wish to have had known; but those which I recollect shall be related to you as exactly as lies in my power. For to represent in full measure his noble career suddenly arrested, to paint to you his indomitable courage, in a body worn out and prostrated by pain and the assaults of death, I confess, would demand a far better ability than mine: because, although, when in former years he discoursed on serious and important matters, he handled them in such a manner that it was difficult to reproduce exactly what he said, yet his ideas and his words at the last seemed to rival each other in serving him. For I am sure that I never knew him give birth to such fine conceptions, or display so much eloquence, as in the time of his sickness. If, Monseigneur, you blame me for introducing his more ordinary observations, please to know that I do so advisedly; for since they proceeded from him at a season of such great trouble, they indicate the perfect tranquillity of his mind and thoughts to the last. </p>
-    Will be deceiv'd; for, gentle hearers, know,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  On Monday, the 9th day of August 1563, on my return from the Court, I sent an invitation to him to come and dine with me. He returned word that he was obliged, but, being indisposed, he would thank me to do him the pleasure of spending an hour with him before he started for Medoc. Shortly after my dinner I went to him. He had laid himself down on the bed with his clothes on, and he was already, I perceived, much changed. He complained of diarrhoea, accompanied by the gripes, and said that he had it about him ever since he played with M. d&rsquo;Escars with nothing but his doublet on, and that with him a cold often brought on such attacks. I advised him to go as he had proposed, but to stay for the night at Germignac, which is only about two leagues from the town. I gave him this advice, because some houses, near to that where he was ping, were visited by the plague, about which he was nervous since his return from Perigord and the Agenois, here it had been raging; and, besides, horse exercise was, from my own experience, beneficial under similar circumstances. He set out, accordingly, with his wife and M. Bouillhonnas, his uncle. </p>
-    To rank our chosen truth with such a show<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Early on the following morning, however, I had intelligence from Madame de la Boetie, that in the night he had fresh and violent attack of dysentery. She had called in physician and apothecary, and prayed me to lose no time coming, which (after dinner) I did. He was delighted to see me; and when I was going away, under promise to turn the following day, he begged me more importunately and affectionately than he was wont to do, to give him as such of my company as possible. I was a little affected; yet was about to leave, when Madame de la Boetie, as if she foresaw something about to happen, implored me with tears to stay the night. When I consented, he seemed to grow more cheerful. I returned home the next day, and on the Thursday I paid him another visit. He had become worse; and his loss of blood from the dysentery, which reduced his strength very much, was largely on the increase. I quitted his side on Friday, but on Saturday I went to him, and found him very weak. He then gave me to understand that his complaint was infectious, and, moreover, disagreeable and depressing; and that he, knowing thoroughly my constitution, desired that I should content myself with coming to see him now and then. On the contrary, after that I never left his side. </p>
-    As fool and fight is, beside forfeiting<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  It was only on the Sunday that he began to converse with me on any subject beyond the immediate one of his illness, and what the ancient doctors thought of it: we had not touched on public affairs, for I found at the very outset that he had a dislike to them. </p>
-    Our own brains, and the opinion that we bring<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  But, on the Sunday, he had a fainting fit; and when he came to himself, he told me that everything seemed to him confused, as if in a mist and in disorder, and that, nevertheless, this visitation was not unpleasing to him. &ldquo;Death,&rdquo; I replied, &ldquo;has no worse sensation, my brother.&rdquo; &ldquo;None so bad,&rdquo; was his answer. He had had no regular sleep since the beginning of his illness; and as he became worse and worse, he began to turn his attention to questions which men commonly occupy themselves with in the last extremity, despairing now of getting better, and intimating as much to me. On that day, as he appeared in tolerably good spirits, I took occasion to say to him that, in consideration of the singular love I bore him, it would become me to take care that his affairs, which he had conducted with such rare prudence in his life, should not be neglected at present; and that I should regret it if, from want of proper counsel, he should leave anything unsettled, not only on account of the loss to his family, but also to his good name. </p>
-    To make that only true we now intend,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  He thanked me for my kindness; and after a little reflection, as if he was resolving certain doubts in his own mind, he desired me to summon his uncle and his wife by themselves, in order that he might acquaint them with his testamentary dispositions. I told him that this would shock them. &ldquo;No, no,&rdquo; he answered, &ldquo;I will cheer them by making out my case to be better than it is.&rdquo; And then he inquired, whether we were not all much taken by surprise at his having fainted? I replied, that it was of no importance, being incidental to the complaint from which he suffered. &ldquo;True, my brother,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;it would be unimportant, even though it should lead to what you most dread.&rdquo; &ldquo;For you,&rdquo; I rejoined, &ldquo;it might be a happy thing; but I should be the loser, who would thereby be deprived of so great, so wise, and so steadfast a friend, a friend whose place I should never see supplied.&rdquo; &ldquo;It is very likely you may not,&rdquo; was his answer; &ldquo;and be sure that one thing which makes me somewhat anxious to recover, and to delay my journey to that place, whither I am already half-way gone, is the thought of the loss both you and that poor man and woman there (referring to his uncle and wife) must sustain; for I love them with my whole heart, and I feel certain that they will find it very hard to lose me. I should also regret it on account of such as have, in my lifetime, valued me, and whose conversation I should like to have enjoyed a little longer; and I beseech you, my brother, if I leave the world, to carry to them for me an assurance of the esteem I entertained for them to the last moment of my existence. My birth was, moreover, scarcely to so little purpose but that, had I lived, I might have done some service to the public; but, however this may be, I am prepared to submit to the will of God, when it shall please Him to call me, being confident of enjoying the tranquillity which you have foretold for me. As for you, my friend, I feel sure that you are so wise, that you will control your emotions, and submit to His divine ordinance regarding me; and I beg of you to see that that good man and woman do not mourn for my departure unnecessarily.&rdquo; </p>
-    Will leave us never an understanding friend.<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  He proceeded to inquire how they behaved at present. &ldquo;Very well,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;considering the circumstances.&rdquo; &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;that is, so long as they do not abandon all hope of me; but when that shall be the case, you will have a hard task to support them.&rdquo; It was owing to his strong regard for his wife and uncle that he studiously disguised from them his own conviction as to the certainty of his end, and he prayed me to do the same. When they were near him he assumed an appearance of gaiety, and flattered them with hopes. I then went to call them. They came, wearing as composed an air as possible; and when we four were together, he addressed us, with an untroubled countenance, as follows: &ldquo;Uncle and wife, rest assured that no new attack of my disease, or fresh doubt that I have as to my recovery, has led me to take this step of communicating to you my intentions, for, thank God, I feel very well and hopeful; but taught by observation and experience the instability of all human things, and even of the life to which we are so much attached, and which is, nevertheless, a mere bubble; and knowing, moreover, that my state of health brings me more within the danger of death, I have thought proper to settle my worldly affairs, having the benefit of your advice.&rdquo; Then addressing himself more particularly to his uncle, &ldquo;Good uncle,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;if I were to rehearse all the obligations under which I lie to you, I am sure that I never should make an end. Let me only say that, wherever I have been, and with whomsoever I have conversed, I have represented you as doing for me all that a father could do for a son; both in the care with which you tended my education, and in the zeal with which you pushed me forward into public life, so that my whole existence is a testimony of your good offices towards me. In short, I am indebted for all that I have to you, who have been to me as a parent; and therefore I have no right to part with anything, unless it be with your approval.&rdquo; </p>
-    Therefore, for goodness sake, and as you are known<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  There was a general silence hereupon, and his uncle was prevented from replying by tears and sobs. At last he said that whatever he thought for the best would be agreeable to him; and as he intended to make him his heir, he was at liberty to dispose of what would be his. </p>
-    The first and happiest hearers of the town,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Then he turned to his wife. &ldquo;My image,&rdquo; said he (for so he often called her, there being some sort of relationship between them), &ldquo;since I have been united to you by marriage, which is one of the most weighty and sacred ties imposed on us by God, for the purpose of maintaining human society, I have continued to love, cherish, and value you; and I know that you have returned my affection, for which I have no sufficient acknowledgment. I beg you to accept such portion of my estate as I bequeath to you, and be satisfied with it, though it is very inadequate to your desert.&rdquo; </p>
-    Be sad, as we would make ye. Think ye see<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Afterwards he turned to me. &ldquo;My brother,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;for whom I have so entire a love, and whom I selected out of so large a number, thinking to revive with you that virtuous and sincere friendship which, owing to the degeneracy of the age, has grown to be almost unknown to us, and now exists only in certain vestiges of antiquity, I beg of you, as a mark of my affection to you, to accept my library: a slender offering, but given with a cordial will, and suitable to you, seeing that you are fond of learning. It will be a memorial of your old companion.&rdquo; </p>
-    The very persons of our noble story<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Then he addressed all three of us. He blessed God that in his extremity he had the happiness to be surrounded by those whom he held dearest in the world, and he looked upon it as a fine spectacle, where four persons were together, so unanimous in their feelings, and loving each other for each other&rsquo;s sake. He commended us one to the other; and proceeded thus: &ldquo;My worldly matters being arranged, I must now think of the welfare of my soul. I am a Christian; I am a Catholic. I have lived one, and I shall die one. Send for a priest; for I wish to conform to this last Christian obligation.&rdquo; He now concluded his discourse, which he had conducted with such a firm face and with so distinct an utterance, that whereas, when I first entered his room, he was feeble, inarticulate in his speech, his pulse low and feverish, and his features pallid, now, by a sort of miracle, he appeared to have rallied, and his pulse was so strong that for the sake of comparison, I asked him to feel mine. </p>
-    As they were living; think you see them great,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  I felt my heart so oppressed at this moment, that I had not the power to make him any answer; but in the course of two or three hours, solicitous to keep up his courage, and, likewise, out of the tenderness which I had had all my life for his honour and fame, wishing a larger number of witnesses to his admirable fortitude, I said to him, how much I was ashamed to think that I lacked courage to listen to what he, so great a sufferer, had the courage to deliver; that down to the present time I had scarcely conceived that God granted us such command over human infirmities, and had found a difficulty in crediting the examples I had read in histories; but that with such evidence of the thing before my eyes, I gave praise to God that it had shown itself in one so excessively dear to me, and who loved me so entirely, and that his example would help me to act in a similar manner when my turn came. Interrupting me, he begged that it might happen so, and that the conversation which had passed between us might not be mere words, but might be impressed deeply on our minds, to be put in exercise at the first occasion; and that this was the real object and aim of all philosophy. </p>
-    And follow'd with the general throng and sweat<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  He then took my hand, and continued: &ldquo;Brother, friend, there are many acts of my life, I think, which have cost me as much difficulty as this one is likely to do; and, after all, I have been long prepared for it, and have my lesson by heart. Have I not lived long enough? I am just upon thirty-three. By the grace of God, my days so far have known nothing but health and happiness; but in the ordinary course of our unstable human affairs, this could not have lasted much longer; it would have become time for me to enter on graver avocations, and I should thus have involved myself in numberless vexations, and, among them, the troubles of old age, from which I shall now be exempt. Moreover, it is probable that hitherto my life has been spent more simply, and with less of evil, than if God had spared me, and I had survived to feel the thirst for riches and worldly prosperity. I am sure, for my part, that I now go to God and the place of the blessed.&rdquo; He seemed to detect in my expression some inquietude at his words; and he exclaimed, &ldquo;What, my brother, would you make me entertain apprehensions? Had I any, whom would it become so much as yourself to remove them?&rdquo; </p>
-    Of thousand friends; then, in a moment, see<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  The notary, who had been summoned to draw up his will, came in the evening, and when he had the documents prepared, I inquired of La Boetie if he would sign them. &ldquo;Sign them,&rdquo; cried he; &ldquo;I will do so with my own hand; but I could desire more time, for I feel exceedingly timid and weak, and in a manner exhausted.&rdquo; But when I was going to change the conversation, he suddenly rallied, said he had but a short time to live, and asked if the notary wrote rapidly, for he should dictate without making any pause. The notary was called, and he dictated his will there and then with such speed that the man could scarcely keep up with him; and when he had done, he asked me to read it out, saying to me, &ldquo;What a good thing it is to look after what are called our riches.&rdquo; &lsquo;Sunt haec, quoe hominibus vocantur bona&rsquo;. As soon as the will was signed, the chamber being full, he asked me if it would hurt him to talk. I answered, that it would not, if he did not speak too loud. He then summoned Mademoiselle de Saint Quentin, his niece, to him, and addressed her thus: &ldquo;Dear niece, since my earliest acquaintance with thee, I have observed the marks of, great natural goodness in thee; but the services which thou rendered to me, with so much affectionate diligence, in my present and last necessity, inspire me with high hopes of thee; and I am under great obligations to thee, and give thee most affectionate thanks. Let me relieve my conscience by counselling thee to be, in the first place, devout, to God: for this doubtless is our first duty, failing which all others can be of little advantage or grace, but which, duly observed, carries with it necessarily all other virtues. After God, thou shouldest love thy father and mother&mdash;thy mother, my sister, whom I regard as one of the best and most intelligent of women, and by whom I beg of thee to let thy own life be regulated. Allow not thyself to be led away by pleasures; shun, like the plague, the foolish familiarities thou seest between some men and women; harmless enough at first, but which by insidious degrees corrupt the heart, and thence lead it to negligence, and then into the vile slough of vice. Credit me, the greatest safeguard to female chastity is sobriety of demeanour. I beseech and direct that thou often call to mind the friendship which was betwixt us; but I do not wish thee to mourn for me too much&mdash;an injunction which, so far as it is in my power, I lay on all my friends, since it might seem that by doing so they felt a jealousy of that blessed condition in which I am about to be placed by death. I assure thee, my dear, that if I had the option now of continuing in life or of completing the voyage on which I have set out, I should find it very hard to choose. Adieu, dear niece.&rdquo; </p>
-    How soon this mightiness meets misery.<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Mademoiselle d&rsquo;Arsat, his stepdaughter, was next called. He said to her: &ldquo;Daughter, you stand in no great need of advice from me, insomuch as you have a mother, whom I have ever found most sagacious, and entirely in conformity with my own opinions and wishes, and whom I have never found faulty; with such a preceptress, you cannot fail to be properly instructed. Do not account it singular that I, with no tie of blood to you, am interested in you; for, being the child of one who is so closely allied to me, I am necessarily concerned in what concerns you; and consequently the affairs of your brother, M. d&rsquo;Arsat, have ever been watched by me with as much care as my own; nor perhaps will it be to your disadvantage that you were my step-daughter. You enjoy sufficient store of wealth and beauty; you are a lady of good family; it only remains for you to add to these possessions the cultivation of your mind, in which I exhort you not to fail. I do not think necessary to warn you against vice, a thing so odious in women, for I would not even suppose that you could harbour any inclination for it&mdash;nay, I believe that you hold the very name in abhorrence. Dear daughter, farewell.&rdquo; </p>
-    And if you can be merry then, I'll say<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  All in the room were weeping and lamenting; but he held without interruption the thread of his discourse, which was pretty long. But when he had done, he directed us all to leave the room, except the women attendants, whom he styled his garrison. But first, calling to him my brother, M. de Beauregard, he said to him: &ldquo;M. de Beauregard, you have my best thanks for all the care you have taken of me. I have now a thing which I am very anxious indeed to mention to you, and with your permission I will do so.&rdquo; As my brother gave him encouragement to proceed, he added: &ldquo;I assure you that I never knew any man who engaged in the reformation of our Church with greater sincerity, earnestness, and single-heartedness than yourself. I consider that you were led to it by observing the vicious character of our prelates, which no doubt much requires setting in order, and by imperfections which time has brought into our Church. It is not my desire at present discourage you from this course, for I would have no one act in opposition to his conscience; but I wish, having regard to the good repute acquired by your family from its enduring concord&mdash;a family than which none can be dearer to me; a family, thank God! no member of which has ever been guilty of dishonour &mdash;in regard, further, to the will of your good father to whom you owe so much, and of your, uncle, I wish you to avoid extreme means; avoid harshness and violence: be reconciled with your relatives; do not act apart, but unite. You perceive what disasters our quarrels have brought upon this kingdom, and I anticipate still worse mischiefs; and in your goodness and wisdom, beware of involving your family in such broils; let it continue to enjoy its former reputation and happiness. M. de Beauregard, take what I say in good part, and as a proof of the friendship I feel for you. I postponed till now any communication with you on the subject, and perhaps the condition in which you see me address you, may cause my advice and opinion to carry greater authority.&rdquo; My brother expressed his thanks to him cordially. </p>
-    A man may weep upon his wedding-day.<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  On the Monday morning he had become so ill that he quite despaired of himself; and he said to me very pitifully: &ldquo;Brother, do not you feel pain for all the pain I am suffering? Do you not perceive now that the help you give me has no other effect than that of lengthening my suffering?&rdquo; </p>
-</p>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Shortly afterwards he fainted, and we all thought him gone; but by the application of vinegar and wine he rallied. But he soon sank, and when he heard us in lamentation, he murmured, &ldquo;O God! who is it that teases me so? Why did you break the agreeable repose I was enjoying? I beg of you to leave me.&rdquo; And then, when he caught the sound of my voice, he continued: &ldquo;And art thou, my brother, likewise unwilling to see me at peace? O, how thou robbest me of my repose!&rdquo; After a while, he seemed to gain more strength, and called for wine, which he relished, and declared it to be the finest drink possible. I, in order to change the current of his thoughts, put in, &ldquo;Surely not; water is the best.&rdquo; &ldquo;Ah, yes,&rdquo; he returned, &ldquo;doubtless so;&mdash;(Greek phrase)&mdash;.&rdquo; He had now become, icy-cold at his extremities, even to his face; a deathly perspiration was upon him, and his pulse was scarcely perceptible. </p>
-<h4>ACT I. SCENE 1.</h4>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  This morning he confessed, but the priest had omitted to bring with him the necessary apparatus for celebrating Mass. On the Tuesday, however, M. de la Boetie summoned him to aid him, as he said, in discharging the last office of a Christian. After the conclusion of Mass, he took the sacrament; when the priest was about to depart, he said to him: &ldquo;Spiritual father, I implore you humbly, as well as those over whom you are set, to pray to the Almighty on my behalf; that, if it be decreed in heaven that I am now to end my life, He will take compassion on my soul, and pardon me my sins, which are manifold, it not being possible for so weak and poor a creature as I to obey completely the will of such a Master; or, if He think fit to keep me longer here, that it may please Him to release my present extreme anguish, and to direct my footsteps in the right path, that I may become a better man than I have been.&rdquo; He paused to recover breath a little; priest was about to go away, he called him back and proceeded: &ldquo;I desire to say, besides, in your hearing this: I declare that I was christened and I have lived, and that so I wish to die, in the faith which Moses preached in Egypt; which afterwards the Patriarchs accepted and professed in Judaea; and which, in the course of time, has been transmitted to France and to us.&rdquo; He seemed desirous of adding something more, but he ended with a request to his uncle and me to send up prayers for him; &ldquo;for those are,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;the best duties that Christians can fulfil one for another.&rdquo; In the course of talking, his shoulder was uncovered, and although a man-servant stood near him, he asked his uncle to re-adjust the clothes. Then, turning his eyes towards me, he said, &ldquo;Ingenui est, cui multum debeas, ei plurimum velle debere.&rdquo; </p>
-<p>London. The palace</p>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  M. de Belot called in the afternoon to see him, and M. de la Boetie, taking his hand, said to him: &ldquo;I was on the point of discharging my debt, but my kind creditor has given me a little further time.&rdquo; A little while after, appearing to wake out of a sort of reverie, he uttered words which he had employed once or twice before in the course of his sickness: &ldquo;Ah well, ah well, whenever the hour comes, I await it with pleasure and fortitude.&rdquo; And then, as they were holding his mouth open by force to give him a draught, he observed to M. de Belot: &ldquo;An vivere tanti est?&rdquo; </p>
-<p>Enter the DUKE OF NORFOLK at one door; at the other,
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  As the evening approached, he began perceptibly to sink; and while I supped, he sent for me to come, being no more than the shadow of a man, or, as he put it himself, &lsquo;non homo, sed species hominis&rsquo;; and he said to me with the utmost difficulty: &ldquo;My brother, my friend, please God I may realise the imaginations I have just enjoyed.&rdquo; Afterwards, having waited for some time while he remained silent, and by painful efforts was drawing long sighs (for his tongue at this point began to refuse its functions), I said, &ldquo;What are they?&rdquo; &ldquo;Grand, grand!&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;I have never yet failed,&rdquo; returned I, &ldquo;to have the honour of hearing your conceptions and imaginations communicated to me; will you not now still let me enjoy them?&rdquo; &ldquo;I would indeed,&rdquo; he answered; &ldquo;but, my brother, I am not able to do so; they are admirable, infinite, and unspeakable.&rdquo; We stopped short there, for he could not go on. A little before, indeed, he had shown a desire to speak to his wife, and had told her, with as gay a countenance as he could contrive to assume, that he had a story to tell her. And it seemed as if he was making an attempt to gain utterance; but, his strength failing him, he begged a little wine to resuscitate it. It was of no avail, for he fainted away suddenly, and was for some time insensible. Having become so near a neighbour to death, and hearing the sobs of Mademoiselle de la Boetie, he called her, and said to her thus: &ldquo;My own likeness, you grieve yourself beforehand; will you not have pity on me? take courage. Assuredly, it costs me more than half the pain I endure, to see you suffer; and reasonably so, because the evils which we ourselves feel we do not actually ourselves suffer, but it certain sentient faculties which God plants in us, that feel them: whereas what we feel on account of others, we feel by consequence of a certain reasoning process which goes on within our minds. But I am going away&rdquo; &mdash;That he said because his strength was failing him; and fearing that he had frightened his wife, he resumed, observing: &ldquo;I am going to sleep. Good night, my wife; go thy way.&rdquo; This was the last farewell he took of her. </p>
-the DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM and the LORD ABERGAVENNY</p>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  After she had left, &ldquo;My brother,&rdquo; said he to me, &ldquo;keep near me, if you please;&rdquo; and then feeling the advance of death more pressing and more acute, or else the effect of some warm draught which they had made him swallow, his voice grew stronger and clearer, and he turned quite with violence in his bed, so that all began again to entertain the hope which we had lost only upon witnessing his extreme prostration. </p>
-<p>  BUCKINGHAM. Good morrow, and well met. How have ye done<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  At this stage he proceeded, among other things, to pray me again and again, in a most affectionate manner, to give him a place; so that I was apprehensive that his reason might be impaired, particularly when, on my pointing out to him that he was doing himself harm, and that these were not of the words of a rational man, he did not yield at first, but redoubled his outcry, saying, &ldquo;My brother, my brother! dost thou then refuse me a place?&rdquo; insomuch that he constrained me to demonstrate to him that, as he breathed and spoke, and had his physical being, therefore he had his place. &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; he responded, &ldquo;I have; but it is not that which I need; and, besides, when all is said, I have no longer any existence.&rdquo; &ldquo;God,&rdquo; I replied, &ldquo;will grant you a better one soon.&rdquo; &ldquo;Would it were now, my brother,&rdquo; was his answer. &ldquo;It is now three days since I have been eager to take my departure.&rdquo; </p>
-    Since last we saw in France?<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Being in this extremity, he frequently called me, merely to satisfy him that I was at his side. At length, he composed himself a little to rest, which strengthened our hopes; so much so, indeed, that I left the room, and went to rejoice thereupon with Mademoiselle de la Boetie. But, an hour or so afterwards, he called me by name once or twice, and then with a long sigh expired at three o&rsquo;clock on Wednesday morning, the 18th August 1563, having lived thirty-two years, nine months, and seventeen days. </p>
-  NORFOLK. I thank your Grace,<br/>
+<h3> II.&mdash;&mdash;To Monseigneur, Monseigneur de Montaigne. </h3>
-    Healthful; and ever since a fresh admirer<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  [This letter is prefixed to Montaigne&rsquo;s translation of the &ldquo;Natural Theology&rdquo; of Raymond de Sebonde, printed at Paris in 1569.] </p>
-    Of what I saw there.<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  In pursuance of the instructions which you gave me last year in your house at Montaigne, Monseigneur, I have put into a French dress, with my own hand, Raymond de Sebonde, that great Spanish theologian and philosopher; and I have divested him, so far as I could, of that rough bearing and barbaric appearance which you saw him wear at first; that, in my opinion, he is now qualified to present himself in the best company. It is perfectly possible that some fastidious persons will detect in the book some trace of Gascon parentage; but it will be so much the more to their discredit, that they allowed the task to devolve on one who is quite a novice in these things. It is only right, Monseigneur, that the work should come before the world under your auspices, since whatever emendations and polish it may have received, are owing to you. Still I see well that, if you think proper to balance accounts with the author, you will find yourself much his debtor; for against his excellent and religious discourses, his lofty and, so to speak, divine conceptions, you will find that you will have to set nothing but words and phraseology; a sort of merchandise so ordinary and commonplace, that whoever has the most of it, peradventure is the worst off. </p>
-  BUCKINGHAM. An untimely ague<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Monseigneur, I pray God to grant you a very long and happy life. From Paris, this 18th of June 1568. Your most humble and most obedient son, </p>
-    Stay'd me a prisoner in my chamber when<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Michel de Montaigne
-    Those suns of glory, those two lights of men,<br/>
+</div>
-    Met in the vale of Andren.<br/>
+<h3> III.&mdash;&mdash;To Monsieur, Monsieur de Lansac, </h3>
-  NORFOLK. 'Twixt Guynes and Arde-<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  &mdash;[This letter appears to belong to 1570.]&mdash;Knight of the King&rsquo;s Order, Privy Councillor, Sub-controller of his Finance, and Captain of the Cent Gardes of his Household. </p>
-    I was then present, saw them salute on horseback;<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  MONSIEUR,&mdash;I send you the OEconomics of Xenophon, put into French by the late M. de la Boetie,&mdash;[Printed at Paris, 8vo, 1571, and reissued, with the addition of some notes, in 1572, with a fresh title-page.]&mdash;a present which appears to me to be appropriate, as well because it is the work of a gentleman of mark,&mdash;[Meaning Xenophon.]&mdash;a man illustrious in war and peace, as because it has taken its second shape from a personage whom I know to have been held by you in affectionate regard during his life. This will be an inducement to you to continue to cherish towards his memory, your good opinion and goodwill. And to be bold with you, Monsieur, do not fear to increase these sentiments somewhat; for, as you had knowledge of his high qualities only in his public capacity, it rests with me to assure you how many endowments he possessed beyond your personal experience of him. He did me the honour, while he lived, and I count it amongst the most fortunate circumstances in my own career, to have with me a friendship so close and so intricately knit, that no movement, impulse, thought, of his mind was kept from me, and if I have not formed a right judgment of him, I must suppose it to be from my own want of scope. Indeed, without exaggeration, he was so nearly a prodigy, that I am afraid of not being credited when I speak of him, even though I should keep much within the mark of my own actual knowledge. And for this time, Monsieur, I shall content myself with praying you, for the honour and respect we owe to truth, to testify and believe that our Guienne never beheld his peer among the men of his vocation. Under the hope, therefore, that you will pay him his just due, and in order to refresh him in your memory, I present you this book, which will answer for me that, were it not for the insufficiency of my power, I would offer you as willingly something of my own, as an acknowledgment of the obligations I owe to you, and of the ancient favour and friendship which you have borne towards the members of our house. But, Monsieur, in default of better coin, I offer you in payment the assurance of my desire to do you humble service. </p>
-    Beheld them, when they lighted, how they clung<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Monsieur, I pray God to have you in His keeping. Your obedient servant, MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE. </p>
-    In their embracement, as they grew together;<br/>
+<h3> IV.&mdash;&mdash;To Monsieur, Monsieur de Mesmes, Lord of Roissy and Malassize, Privy </h3>
-    Which had they, what four thron'd ones could have weigh'd<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Councillor to the King. </p>
-    Such a compounded one?<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Monsieur,&mdash;It is one of the most conspicuous follies committed by men, to employ the strength of their understanding in overturning and destroying those opinions which are commonly received among us, and which afford us satisfaction and content; for while everything beneath heaven employs the ways and means placed at its disposal by nature for the advancement and commodity of its being, these, in order to appear of a more sprightly and enlightened wit, not accepting anything which has not been tried and balanced a thousand times with the most subtle reasoning, sacrifice their peace of mind to doubt, uneasiness, and feverish excitement. It is not without reason that childhood and simplicity have been recommended by holy writ itself. For my part, I prefer to be quiet rather than clever: give me content, even if I am not to be so wide in my range. This is the reason, Monsieur, why, although persons of an ingenious turn laugh at our care as to what will happen after our own time, for instance, to our souls, which, lodged elsewhere, will lose all consciousness of what goes on here below, yet I consider it to be a great consolation for the frailty and brevity of life, to reflect that we have the power of prolonging it by reputation and fame; and I embrace very readily this pleasant and favourable notion original with our being, without inquiring too critically how or why it is. Insomuch that having loved, beyond everything, the late M. de la Boetie, the greatest man, in my judgment, of our age, I should think myself very negligent of my duty if I failed, to the utmost of my power, to prevent such a name as his, and a memory so richly meriting remembrance, from falling into oblivion; and if I did not use my best endeavour to keep them fresh. I believe that he feels something of what I do on his behalf, and that my services touch and rejoice him. In fact, he lives in my heart so vividly and so wholly, that I am loath to believe him committed to the dull ground, or altogether cast off from communication with us. Therefore, Monsieur, since every new light I can shed on him and his name, is so much added to his second period of existence, and, moreover, since his name is ennobled and honoured by the place which receives it, it falls to me not only to extend it as widely as I can, but to confide it to the keeping of persons of honour and virtue; among whom you hold such a rank, that, to afford you the opportunity of receiving this new guest, and giving him good entertainment, I decided on presenting to you this little work, not for any profit you are likely to derive from it, being well aware that you do not need to have Plutarch and his companions interpreted to you&mdash;but it is possible that Madame de Roissy, reading in it the order of her household management and of your happy accord painted to the life, will be pleased to see how her own natural inclination has not only reached but surpassed the theories of the wisest philosophers, regarding the duties and laws of the wedded state. And, at all events, it will be always an honour to me, to be able to do anything which shall be for the pleasure of you and yours, on account of the obligation under which I lie to serve you. </p>
-  BUCKINGHAM. All the whole time<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Monsieur, I pray God to grant you a long and happy life. From Montaigne, this 30th April 1570. Your humble servant, MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE. </p>
-    I was my chamber's prisoner.<br/>
+<h3> V.&mdash;&mdash;To Monsieur, Monsieur de L&rsquo;Hospital, Chancellor of France </h3>
-  NORFOLK. Then you lost<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Monseigneur,&mdash;I am of the opinion that persons such as you, to whom fortune and reason have committed the charge of public affairs, are not more inquisitive in any point than in ascertaining the character of those in office under you; for no society is so poorly furnished, but that, if a proper distribution of authority be used, it has persons sufficient for the discharge of all official duties; and when this is the case, nothing is wanting to make a State perfect in its constitution. Now, in proportion as this is so much to be desired, so it is the more difficult of accomplishment, since you cannot have eyes to embrace a multitude so large and so widely extended, nor to see to the bottom of hearts, in order that you may discover intentions and consciences, matters principally to be considered; so that there has never been any commonwealth so well organised, in which we might not detect often enough defect in such a department or such a choice; and in those systems, where ignorance and malice, favouritism, intrigue, and violence govern, if any selection happens to be made on the ground of merit and regularity, we may doubtless thank Fortune, which, in its capricious movements, has for once taken the path of reason. </p>
-    The view of earthly glory; men might say,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  This consideration, Monseigneur, often consoled me, when I beheld M. Etienne de la Boetie, one of the fittest men for high office in France, pass his whole life without employment and notice, by his domestic hearth, to the singular detriment of the public; for, so far as he was concerned, I may assure you, Monseigneur, that he was so rich in those treasures which defy fortune, that never was man more satisfied or content. I know, indeed, that he was raised to the dignities connected with his neighbourhood&mdash;dignities accounted considerable; and I know also, that no one ever acquitted himself better of them; and when he died at the age of thirty-two, he enjoyed a reputation in that way beyond all who had preceded him. </p>
-    Till this time pomp was single, but now married<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  But for all that, it is no reason that a man should be left a common soldier, who deserves to become a captain; nor to assign mean functions to those who are perfectly equal to the highest. In truth, his powers were badly economised and too sparingly employed; insomuch that, over and above his actual work, there was abundant capacity lying idle which might have been called into service, both to the public advantage and his own private glory. </p>
-    To one above itself. Each following day<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Therefore, Monseigneur, since he was so indifferent to his own fame (for virtue and ambition, unfortunately, seldom lodge together), and since he lived in an age when others were too dull or too jealous to witness to his character, I have it marvellously at heart that his memory, at all events, to which I owe the good offices of a friend, should enjoy the recompense of his brave life; and that it should survive in the good report of men of honour and virtue. On this account, sir, I have been desirous to bring to light, and present to you, such few Latin verses as he left behind. Different from the builder, who places the most attractive, portion of his house towards the street, and to the draper, who displays in his window his best goods, that which was most precious in my friend, the juice and marrow of his genius, departed with him, and there have remained to us but the bark and the leaves. </p>
-    Became the next day's master, till the last<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  The exactly regulated movements of his mind, his piety, his virtue, his justice, his vivacity, the solidity and soundness of his judgment, the loftiness of his ideas, raised so far above the common level, his learning, the grace which accompanied his most ordinary actions, the tender affection he had for his miserable country, and his supreme and sworn detestation of all vice, but principally of that villainous traffic which disguises itself under the honourable name of justice, should certainly impress all well-disposed persons with a singular love towards him, and an extraordinary regret for his loss. But, sir, I am unable to do justice to all these qualities; and of the fruit of his own studies it had not entered into his mind to leave any proof to posterity; all that remains, is the little which, as a pastime, he did at intervals. </p>
-    Made former wonders its. To-day the French,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  However this may be, I beg you, sir, to receive it kindly; and as our judgment of great things is many times formed from lesser things, and as even the recreations of illustrious men carry with them, to intelligent observers, some honourable traits of their origin, I would have you form from this, some knowledge of him, and hence lovingly cherish his name and his memory. In this, sir, you will only reciprocate the high opinion which he had of your virtue, and realise what he infinitely desired in his lifetime; for there was no one in the world in whose acquaintance and friendship he would have been so happy to see himself established, as in your own. But if any man is offended by the freedom which I use with the belongings of another, I can tell him that nothing which has been written or been laid down, even in the schools of philosophy, respecting the sacred duties and rights of friendship, could give an adequate idea of the relations which subsisted between this personage and myself. </p>
-    All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Moreover, sir, this slender gift, to make two throws of one stone at the same time, may likewise serve, if you please, to testify the honour and respect which I entertain for your ability and high qualities; for as to those gifts which are adventitious and accidental, it is not to my taste to take them into account. </p>
-    Shone down the English; and to-morrow they<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Sir, I pray God to grant you a very happy and a very long life. From Montaigne, this 30th of April 1570.&mdash;Your humble and obedient servant, </p>
-    Made Britain India: every man that stood<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Michel de Montaigne.
-    Show'd like a mine. Their dwarfish pages were<br/>
+</div>
-    As cherubins, an gilt; the madams too,<br/>
+<h3> VI.&mdash;&mdash;To Monsieur, Monsieur de Folx, Privy Councillor, and Ambassador of His Majesty to the Signory of Venice. </h3>
-    Not us'd to toil, did almost sweat to bear<br/>
+<h4> &mdash;[ Printed before the &lsquo;Vers Francois&rsquo; of Etienne de la Boetie, 8vo, Paris, 1572.] </h4>
-    The pride upon them, that their very labour<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  SIR,&mdash;Being on the point of commending to you and to posterity the memory of the late Etienne de la Boetie, as well for his extreme virtue as for the singular affection which he bore to me, it struck me as an indiscretion very serious in its results, and meriting some coercion from our laws, the practice which often prevails of robbing virtue of glory, its faithful associate, in order to confer it, in accordance with our private interests and without discrimination, on the first comer; seeing that our two principal guiding reins are reward and punishment, which only touch us properly, and as men, through the medium of honour and dishonour, forasmuch as these penetrate the mind, and come home to our most intimate feelings: just where animals themselves are susceptible, more or less, to all other kinds of recompense and corporal chastisement. Moreover, it is well to notice that the custom of praising virtue, even in those who are no longer with us, impalpable as it is to them, serves as a stimulant to the living to imitate their example; just as capital sentences are carried out by the law, more for the sake of warning to others, than in relation to those who suffer. Now, commendation and its opposite being analogous as regards effects, we cannot easily deny the fact, that although the law prohibits one man from slandering the reputation of another, it does not prevent us from bestowing reputation without cause. This pernicious licence in respect to the distribution of praise, has formerly been confined in its area of operations; and it may be the reason why poetry once lost favour with the more judicious. However this may be, it cannot be concealed that the vice of falsehood is one very unbecoming in gentleman, let it assume what guise it will. </p>
-    Was to them as a painting. Now this masque<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  As for that personage of whom I am speaking to you, sir he leads me far away indeed from this kind of language; for the danger in his case is not, lest I should lend him anything, but that I might take something from him; and it is his ill-fortune that, while he has supplied me, so far as ever a man could, with just and obvious opportunities for commendation, I find myself unable and unqualified to render it to him &mdash;I, who am his debtor for so many vivid communications, and who alone have it in my power to answer for a million of accomplishments, perfections, and virtues, latent (thanks to his unkind stars) in so noble a soul. For the nature of things having (I know not how) permitted that truth, fair and acceptable&mdash;as it may be of itself, is only embraced where there are arts of persuasion, to insinuate it into our minds, I see myself so wanting, both in authority to support my simple testimony, and in the eloquence requisite for lending it value and weight, that I was on the eve of relinquishing the task, having nothing of his which would enable me to exhibit to the world a proof of his genius and knowledge. </p>
-    Was cried incomparable; and th' ensuing night<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  In truth, sir, having been overtaken by his fate in the flower of his age, and in the full enjoyment of the most vigorous health, it had been his design to publish some day works which would have demonstrated to posterity what sort of a man he was; and, peradventure, he was indifferent enough to fame, having formed such a plan in his head, to proceed no further in it. But I have come to the conclusion, that it was far more excusable in him to bury with him all his rare endowments, than it would be on my part to bury also with me the knowledge of them which I had acquired from him; and, therefore, having collected with care all the remains which I found scattered here and there among his papers, I intend to distribute them so as to recommend his memory to as many persons as possible, selecting the most suitable and worthy of my acquaintance, and those whose testimony might do him greatest honour: such as you, sir, who may very possibly have had some knowledge of him during his life, but assuredly too slight to discover the perfect extent of his worth. Posterity may credit me, if it chooses, when I swear upon my conscience, that I knew and saw him to be such as, all things considered, I could neither desire nor imagine a genius surpassing his. </p>
-    Made it a fool and beggar. The two kings,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  I beg you very humbly, sir, not only to take his name under your general protection, but also these ten or twelve French stanzas, which lay themselves, as of necessity, under shadow of your patronage. For I will not disguise from you, that their publication was deferred, upon the appearance of his other writings, under the pretext (as it was alleged yonder at Paris) that they were too crude to come to light. You will judge, sir, how much truth there is in this; and since it is thought that hereabout nothing can be produced in our own dialect but what is barbarous and unpolished, it falls to you, who, besides your rank as the first house in Guienne, indeed down from your ancestors, possess every other sort of qualification, to establish, not merely by your example, but by your authoritative testimony, that such is not always the case: the more so that, though &lsquo;tis more natural with the Gascons to act than talk, yet sometimes they employ the tongue more than the arm, and wit in place of valour. </p>
-    Equal in lustre, were now best, now worst,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  For my own part; sir, it is not in my way to judge of such matters; but I have heard persons who are supposed to understand them, say that these stanzas are not only worthy to be presented in the market-place, but, independently of that, as regards beauty and wealth of invention, they are full of marrow and matter as any compositions of the kind, which have appeared in our language. Naturally each workman feels himself more strong in some special part his art, and those are to be regarded as most fortunate, who lay hands on the noblest, for all the parts essential to the construction of any whole are not equally precious. We find elsewhere, perhaps, greater delicacy phrase, greater softness and harmony of language; but imaginative grace, and in the store of pointed wit, I do not think he has been surpassed; and we should take the account that he made these things neither his occupation nor his study, and that he scarcely took a pen in his hand more than once a year, as is shown by the very slender quantity of his remains. For you see here, sir, green wood and dry, without any sort of selection, all that has come into my possession; insomuch that there are among the rest efforts even of his boyhood. In point of fact, he seems to have written them merely to show that he was capable of dealing with all subjects: for otherwise, thousands of times, in the course of ordinary conversation, I have heard things drop from him infinitely more worthy of being admired, infinitely more worthy of being preserved. </p>
-    As presence did present them: him in eye<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Such, sir, is what justice and affection, forming in this instance a rare conjunction, oblige me to say of this great and good man; and if I have at all offended by the freedom which I have taken in addressing myself to you on such a subject at such a length, be pleased to recollect that the principal result of greatness and eminence is to lay one open to importunate appeals on behalf of the rest of the world. Herewith, after desiring you to accept my affectionate devotion to your service, I beseech God to vouchsafe you, sir, a fortunate and prolonged life. From Montaigne, this 1st of September 1570.&mdash;Your obedient servant, </p>
-    still him in praise; and being present both,<br/>
+<h3> VII.&mdash;&mdash;To Mademoiselle de Montaigne, my Wife. </h3>
-    'Twas said they saw but one, and no discerner<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  &mdash;[Printed as a preface to the &ldquo;Consolation of Plutarch to his Wife,&rdquo; published by Montaigne, with several other tracts by La Boetie, about 1571.] </p>
-    Durst wag his tongue in censure. When these suns-<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  My Wife,&mdash;You understand well that it is not proper for a man of the world, according to the rules of this our time, to continue to court and caress you; for they say that a sensible person may take a wife indeed, but that to espouse her is to act like a fool. Let them talk; I adhere for my part the custom of the good old days; I also wear my hair as it used to be then; and, in truth, novelty costs this poor country up to the present moment so dear (and I do not know whether we have reached the highest pitch yet), that everywhere and in everything I renounce the fashion. Let us live, my wife, you and I, in the old French method. Now, you may recollect that the late M. de la Boetie, my brother and inseparable companion, gave me, on his death-bed, all his books and papers, which have remained ever since the most precious part of my effects. I do not wish to keep them niggardly to myself alone, nor do I deserve to have the exclusive use of them; so that I have resolved to communicate them to my friends; and because I have none, I believe, more particularly intimate you, I send you the Consolatory Letter written by Plutarch to his Wife, translated by him into French; regretting much that fortune has made it so suitable a present you, and that, having had but one child, and that a daughter, long looked for, after four years of your married life it was your lot to lose her in the second year of her age. But I leave to Plutarch the duty of comforting you, acquainting you with your duty herein, begging you to put your faith in him for my sake; for he will reveal to you my own ideas, and will express the matter far better than I should myself. Hereupon, my wife, I commend myself very heartily to your good will, and pray God to have you in His keeping. From Paris, this 10th September 1570.&mdash;Your good husband, </p>
-    For so they phrase 'em-by their heralds challeng'd<br/>
+<h3> VIII.&mdash;&mdash;To Monsieur Dupuy, </h3>
-    The noble spirits to arms, they did perform<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  &mdash;[This is probably the Claude Dupuy, born at Paris in 1545, and one of the fourteen judges sent into Guienne after the treaty of Fleix in 1580. It was perhaps under these circumstances that Montaigne addressed to him the present letter.]&mdash;the King&rsquo;s Councillor in his Court and Parliament of Paris. </p>
-    Beyond thought's compass, that former fabulous story,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Monsieur,&mdash;The business of the Sieur de Verres, a prisoner, who is extremely well known to me, deserves, in the arrival at a decision, the exercise of the clemency natural to you, if, in the public interest, you can fairly call it into play. He has done a thing not only excusable, according to the military laws of this age, but necessary and (as we are of opinion) commendable. He committed the act, without doubt, unwillingly and under pressure; there is no other passage of his life which is open to reproach. I beseech you, sir, to lend the matter your attentive consideration; you will find the character of it as I represent it to you. He is persecuted on this crime, in a way which is far worse than the offence itself. If it is likely to be of use to him, I desire to inform you that he is a man brought up in my house, related to several respectable families, and a person who, having led an honourable life, is my particular friend. By saving him you lay me under an extreme obligation. I beg you very humbly to regard him as recommended by me, and, after kissing your hands, I pray God, sir, to grant you a long and happy life. From Castera, this 23d of April 1580. Your affectionate servant, MONTAIGNE. </p>
-    Being now seen possible enough, got credit,<br/>
+<h3> IX.&mdash;&mdash;To the Jurats of Bordeaux. </h3>
-    That Bevis was believ'd.<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  &mdash;[Published from the original among the archives of the town of Bordeaux, M. Gustave Brunet in the Bulletin du Bibliophile, July 1839.] </p>
-  BUCKINGHAM. O, you go far!<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Gentlemen,&mdash;I trust that the journey of Monsieur de Cursol will be of advantage to the town. Having in hand a case so just and so favourable, you did all in your power to put the business in good trim; and matters being so well situated, I beg you to excuse my absence for some little time longer, and I will abridge my stay so far as the pressure of my affairs permits. I hope that the delay will be short; however, you will keep me, if you please, in your good grace, and will command me, if the occasion shall arise, in employing me in the public service and in yours. Monsieur de Cursol has also written to me and apprised me of his journey. I humbly commend myself to you, and pray God, gentlemen, to grant you long and happy life. From Montaigne, this 21st of May 1582. Your humble brother and servant, MONTAIGNE. </p>
-  NORFOLK. As I belong to worship, and affect<br/>
+<h3> X.&mdash;&mdash;To the same. </h3>
-    In honour honesty, the tract of ev'rything<br/>
+<h4> &mdash;[The original is among the archives of Toulouse.] </h4>
-    Would by a good discourser lose some life<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Gentlemen,&mdash;I have taken my fair share of the satisfaction which you announce to me as feeling at the good despatch of your business, as reported to you by your deputies, and I regard it as a favourable sign that you have made such an auspicious commencement of the year. I hope to join you at the earliest convenient opportunity. I recommend myself very humbly to your gracious consideration, and pray God to grant you, gentlemen, a happy and long life. From Montaigne, this 8th February 1585. Your humble brother and servant, MONTAIGNE. </p>
-    Which action's self was tongue to. All was royal:<br/>
+<h3> XI.&mdash;&mdash;To the same. </h3>
-    To the disposing of it nought rebell'd;<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Gentlemen,&mdash;I have here received news of you from M. le Marechal. I will not spare either my life or anything else for your service, and will leave it to your judgment whether the assistance I might be able to render by my presence at the forthcoming election, would be worth the risk I should run by going into the town, seeing the bad state it is in, &mdash;[This refers to the plague then raging, and which carried off 14,000 persons at Bordeaux.]&mdash;particularly for people coming away from so fine an air as this is where I am. I will draw as near to you on Wednesday as I can, that is, to Feuillas, if the malady has not reached that place, where, as I write to M. de la Molte, I shall be very pleased to have the honour of seeing one of you to take your directions, and relieve myself of the credentials which M. le Marechal will give me for you all: commending myself hereupon humbly to your good grace, and praying God to grant you, gentlemen, long and happy life. At Libourne, this 30th of July 1585. Your humble servant and brother, MONTAIGNE. </p>
-    Order gave each thing view. The office did<br/>
+<h3> XII. </h3>
-    Distinctly his full function.<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  &mdash;[&ldquo;According to Dr. Payen, this letter belongs to 1588. Its authenticity has been called in question; but wrongly, in our opinion. See &lsquo;Documents inedits&rsquo;, 1847, p. 12.&rdquo;&mdash;Note in &lsquo;Essais&rsquo;, ed. Paris, 1854, iv. 381. It does not appear to whom the letter was addressed.] </p>
-  BUCKINGHAM. Who did guide-<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Monseigneur,&mdash;You have heard of our baggage being taken from us under our eyes in the forest of Villebois: then, after a good deal of discussion and delay, of the capture being pronounced illegal by the Prince. We dared not, however, proceed on our way, from an uncertainty as to the safety of our persons, which should have been clearly expressed on our passports. The League has done this, M. de Barrant and M. de la Rochefocault; the storm has burst on me, who had my money in my box. I have recovered none of it, and most of my papers and cash&mdash;[The French word is hardes, which St. John renders things. But compare Chambers&rsquo;s &ldquo;Domestic Annals of Scotland,&rdquo; 2d ed. i. 48.]&mdash;remain in their possession. I have not seen the Prince. Fifty were lost . . . as for the Count of Thorigny, he lost some ver plate and a few articles of clothing. He diverged from his route to pay a visit to the mourning ladies at Montresor, where are the remains of his two brothers and his grandmother, and came to us again in this town, whence we shall resume our journey shortly. The journey to Normandy is postponed. The King has despatched MM. De Bellieure and de la Guiche to M. de Guise to summon him to court; we shall be there on Thursday. </p>
-    I mean, who set the body and the limbs<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  From Orleans, this 16th of February, in the morning [1588-9?].&mdash;Your very humble servant, MONTAIGNE. </p>
-    Of this great sport together, as you guess?<br/>
+<h3> XIII.&mdash;&mdash;To Mademoiselle PAULMIER. </h3>
-  NORFOLK. One, certes, that promises no element<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  &mdash;[This letter, at the time of the publication of the variorum edition of 1854, appears to have been in private hands. See vol. iv. p. 382.] </p>
-    In such a business.<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Mademoiselle,&mdash;My friends know that, from the first moment of our acquaintance, I have destined a copy of my book for you; for I feel that you have done it much honour. The courtesy of M. Paulmier would deprive me of the pleasure of giving it to you now, for he has obliged me since a great deal beyond the worth of my book. You will accept it then, if you please, as having been yours before I owed it to you, and will confer on me the favour of loving it, whether for its own sake or for mine; and I will keep my debt to M. Paulmier undischarged, that I may requite him, if I have at some other time the means of serving him. </p>
-  BUCKINGHAM. I pray you, who, my lord?<br/>
+<h3> XIV.&mdash;&mdash;To the KING, HENRY IV. </h3>
-  NORFOLK. All this was ord'red by the good discretion<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  &mdash;[The original is in the French national library, in the Dupuy collection. It was first discovered by M. Achille Jubinal, who printed it with a facsimile of the entire autograph, in 1850. St. John gives the date wrongly as the 1st January 1590.] </p>
-    Of the right reverend Cardinal of York.<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Sire, It is to be above the weight and crowd of your great and important affairs, to know, as you do, how to lend yourself, and attend to small matters in their turn, according to the duty of your royal dignity, which exposes you at all times to every description and degree of person and employment. Yet, that your Majesty should have deigned to consider my letter, and direct a reply to be made to it, I prefer to owe, less to your strong understanding, than to your kindness of heart. I have always looked forward to your enjoyment of your present fortune, and you may recollect that, even when I had to make confession of itto my cure, I viewed your successes with satisfaction: now, with the greater propriety and freedom, I embrace them affectionately. They serve you where you are as positive matters of fact; but they serve us here no less by the fame which they diffuse: the echo carries as much weight as the blow. We should not be able to derive from the justice of your cause such powerful arguments for the maintenance and reduction of your subjects, as we do from the reports of the success of your undertaking; and then I have to assure your Majesty, that the recent changes to your advantage, which you observe hereabouts, the prosperous issue of your proceedings at Dieppe, have opportunely seconded the honest zeal and marvellous prudence of M. the Marshal de Matignon, from whom I flatter myself that you do not receive day by day accounts of such good and signal services without remembering my assurances and expectations. I look to the next summer, not only for fruits which we may eat, but for those to grow out of our common tranquillity, and that it will pass over our heads with the same even tenor of happiness, dissipating, like its predecessors, all the fine promises with which your adversaries sustain the spirits of their followers. The popular inclinations resemble a tidal wave; if the current once commences in your favour, it will go on of its own force to the end. I could have desired much that the private gain of the soldiers of your army, and the necessity for satisfying them, had not deprived you, especially in this principal town, of the glorious credit of treating your mutinous subjects, in the midst of victory, with greater clemency than their own protectors, and that, as distinguished from a passing and usurped repute, you could have shown them to be really your own, by the exercise of a protection truly paternal and royal. In the conduct of such affairs as you have in hand, men are obliged to have recourse to unusual expedients. It is always seen that they are surmounted by their magnitude and difficulty; it not being found easy to complete the conquest by arms and force, the end has been accomplished by clemency and generosity, excellent lures to draw men particularly towards the just and legitimate side. If there is to be severity and punishment, let it be deferred till success has been assured. A great conqueror of past times boasts that he gave his enemies as great an inducement to love him, as his friends. And here we feel already some effect of the favourable impression produced upon our rebellious towns by the contrast between their rude treatment, and that of those which are loyal to you. Desiring your Majesty a happiness more tangible and less hazardous, and that you may be beloved rather than feared by your people, and believing that your welfare and theirs are of necessity knit together, I rejoice to think that the progress which you make is one towards more practicable conditions of peace, as well as towards victory! </p>
-  BUCKINGHAM. The devil speed him! No man's pie is freed<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Sire, your letter of the last of November came to my hand only just now, when the time which it pleased you to name for meeting you at Tours had already passed. I take it as a singular favour that you should have deigned to desire a visit from so useless a person, but one who is wholly yours, and more so even by affection than from duty. You have acted very commendably in adapting yourself, in the matter of external forms, to your new fortunes; but the preservation of your old affability and frankness in private intercourse is entitled to an equal share of praise. You have condescended to take thought for my age, no less than for the desire which I have to see you, where you may be at rest from these laborious agitations. Will not that be soon at Paris, Sire? and may nothing prevent me from presenting myself there!&mdash;Your very humble and very obedient servant and subject, MONTAIGNE. </p>
-    From his ambitious finger. What had he<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  From Montaigne, this 18th of January 1590. </p>
-    To do in these fierce vanities? I wonder<br/>
+<h3> XV.&mdash;&mdash;To the same. </h3>
-    That such a keech can with his very bulk<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  &mdash;[ This letter is also in the national collection, among the Dupuy papers. It was first printed in the &ldquo;Journal de l&rsquo;Instruction Publique,&rdquo; 4th November 1846.] </p>
-    Take up the rays o' th' beneficial sun,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  SIRE,&mdash;The letter which it pleased your majesty to write to me on the 20th of July, was not delivered to me till this morning, and found me laid up with a very violent tertian ague, a complaint very common in this part of the country during the last month. Sire, I consider myself greatly honoured by the receipt of your commands, and I have not omitted to communicate to M. the Marshal de Matignon three times most emphatically my intention and obligation to proceed to him, and even so far as to indicate the route by which I proposed to join him secretly, if he thought proper. Having received no answer, I consider that he has weighed the difficulty and risk of the journey to me. Sire, your Majesty dill do me the favour to believe, if you please, that I shall never complain of the expense on occasions where I should not hesitate to devote my life. I have never derived any substantial benefit whatever from the bounty of kings, which I have neither sought nor merited; nor have I had any recompense for the services which I have performed for them: whereof your majesty is in part aware. What I have done for your predecessors I shall do still more readily for you. I am as rich, Sire, as I desire to be. When I shall have exhausted my purse in attendance on your Majesty at Paris, I will take the liberty to tell you, and then, if you should regard me as worthy of being retained any longer in your suite, you will find me more modest in my claims upon you than the humblest of your officers. </p>
-    And keep it from the earth.<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Sire, I pray God for your prosperity and health. Your very humble and very obedient servant and subject, MONTAIGNE. </p>
-  NORFOLK. Surely, sir,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  From Montaigne, this 2d of September 1590. </p>
-    There's in him stuff that puts him to these ends;<br/>
+<h3> XVI.&mdash;&mdash;To the Governor of Guienne. </h3>
-    For, being not propp'd by ancestry, whose grace<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Monseigneur,&mdash;I have received this morning your letter, which I have communicated to M. de Gourgues, and we have dined together at the house of M.[the mayor] of Bourdeaux. As to the inconvenience of transporting the money named in your memorandum, you see how difficult a thing it is to provide for; but you may be sure that we shall keep as close a watch over it as possible. I used every exertion to discover the man of whom you spoke. He has not been here; and M. de Bordeaux has shown me a letter in which he mentions that he could not come to see the Director of Bordeaux, as he intended, having been informed that you mistrust him. The letter is of the day before yesterday. If I could have found him, I might perhaps have pursued the gentler course, being uncertain of your views; but I entreat you nevertheless to feel no manner of doubt that I refuse to carry out any wishes of yours, and that, where your commands are concerned, I know no distinction of person or matter. I hope that you have in Guienne many as well affected to you as I am. They report that the Nantes galleys are advancing towards Brouage. M. the Marshal de Biron has not yet left. Those who were charged to convey the message to M. d&rsquo;Usee say that they cannot find him; and I believe that, if he has been here, he is so no longer. We keep a vigilant eye on our gates and guards, and we look after them a little more attentively in your absence, which makes me apprehensive, not merely on account of the preservation of the town, but likewise for your oven sake, knowing that the enemies of the king feel how necessary you are to his service, and how ill we should prosper without you. I am afraid that, in the part where you are, you will be overtaken by so many affairs requiring your attention on every side, that it will take you a long time and involve great difficulty before you have disposed of everything. If there is any important news, I will despatch an express at once, and you may conclude that nothing is stirring if you do not hear from me: at the same time begging you to bear in mind that movements of this kind are wont to be so sudden and unexpected that, if they occur, they will grasp me by the throat, before they say a word. I will do what I can to collect news, and for this purpose I will make a point of visiting and seeing men of every shade of opinion. Down to the present time nothing is stirring. M. de Londel has seen me this morning, and we have been arranging for some advances for the place, where I shall go to-morrow morning. Since I began this letter, I have learnt from Chartreux that two gentlemen, describing themselves as in the service of M. de Guise, and coming from Agen, have passed near Chartreux; but I was not able to ascertain which road they have taken. They are expecting you at Agen. The Sieur de Mauvesin came as far as Canteloup, and thence returned, having got some intelligence. I am in search of one Captain Rous, to whom . . . wrote, trying to draw him into his cause by all sorts of promises. The rumour of the two Nantes galleys ready to descend on Brouage is confirmed as certain; they carry two companies of foot. M. de Mercure is at Nantes. The Sieur de la Courbe said to M. the President Nesmond that M. d&rsquo;Elbeuf is on this side of Angiers, and lodges with his father. He is drawing towards Lower Poictou with 4000 foot and 400 or 500 horse, having been reinforced by the troops of M. de Brissac and others, and M. de Mercure is to join him. The report goes also that M. du Maine is about to take the command of all the forces they have collected in Auvergne, and that he will cross Le Foret to advance on Rouergue and us, that is to say, on the King of Navarre, against whom all this is being directed. M. de Lansac is at Bourg, and has two war vessels, which remain in attendance on him. His functions are naval. I tell you what I learn, and mix up together the more or less probable hearsay of the town with actual matter of fact, that you may be in possession of everything. I beg you most humbly to return directly affairs may allow you to do so, and assure you that, meanwhile, we shall not spare our labour, or (if that were necessary) our life, to maintain the king&rsquo;s authority throughout. Monseigneur, I kiss your hands very respectfully, and pray God to have you in His keeping. From Bordeaux, Wednesday night, 22d May (1590-91).&mdash;Your very humble servant, </p>
-    Chalks successors their way, nor call'd upon<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  Montaigne. </p>
-    For high feats done to th' crown, neither allied<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  I have seen no one from the king of Navarre; they say that M. de Biron has seen him. </p> <pre xml:space="preserve"> THE AUTHOR TO THE READER. </pre>
-    To eminent assistants, but spider-like,<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  &mdash;[Omitted by Cotton.]&mdash; </p>
-    Out of his self-drawing web, 'a gives us note<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  READER, thou hast here an honest book; it doth at the outset forewarn thee that, in contriving the same, I have proposed to myself no other than a domestic and private end: I have had no consideration at all either to thy service or to my glory. My powers are not capable of any such design. I have dedicated it to the particular commodity of my kinsfolk and friends, so that, having lost me (which they must do shortly), they may therein recover some traits of my conditions and humours, and by that means preserve more whole, and more life-like, the knowledge they had of me. Had my intention been to seek the world&rsquo;s favour, I should surely have adorned myself with borrowed beauties: I desire therein to be viewed as I appear in mine own genuine, simple, and ordinary manner, without study and artifice: for it is myself I paint. My defects are therein to be read to the life, and any imperfections and my natural form, so far as public reverence hath permitted me. If I had lived among those nations, which (they say) yet dwell under the sweet liberty of nature&rsquo;s primitive laws, I assure thee I would most willingly have painted myself quite fully and quite naked. Thus, reader, myself am the matter of my book: there&rsquo;s no reason thou shouldst employ thy leisure about so frivolous and vain a subject. Therefore farewell. </p>
-    The force of his own merit makes his way-<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  From Montaigne, the 12th June 1580&mdash;[So in the edition of 1595; the edition of 1588 has 12th June 1588] </p>
-    A gift that heaven gives for him, which buys<br/>
+<p>¶{{#counter: }} —  From Montaigne, the 1st March 1580. </p> <pre xml:space="preserve"> &mdash;[See Bonnefon, Montaigne, 1893, p. 254.  The book had been licensed for the press on the 9th May previous.  The edition of 1588 has 12th June 1588;]&mdash; </pre>
-    A place next to the King.<br/>
-  ABERGAVENNY. I cannot tell<br/>
-    What heaven hath given him-let some graver eye<br/>
-    Pierce into that; but I can see his pride<br/>
-    Peep through each part of him. Whence has he that?<br/>
-    If not from hell, the devil is a niggard<br/>
-    Or has given all before, and he begins<br/>
-    A new hell in himself.<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. Why the devil,<br/>
-    Upon this French going out, took he upon him-<br/>
-    Without the privity o' th' King-t' appoint<br/>
-    Who should attend on him? He makes up the file<br/>
-    Of all the gentry; for the most part such<br/>
-    To whom as great a charge as little honour<br/>
-    He meant to lay upon; and his own letter,<br/>
-    The honourable board of council out,<br/>
-    Must fetch him in he papers.<br/>
-  ABERGAVENNY. I do know<br/>
-    Kinsmen of mine, three at the least, that have<br/>
-    By this so sicken'd their estates that never<br/>
-    They shall abound as formerly.<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. O, many<br/>
-    Have broke their backs with laying manors on 'em<br/>
-    For this great journey. What did this vanity<br/>
-    But minister communication of<br/>
-    A most poor issue?<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Grievingly I think<br/>
-    The peace between the French and us not values<br/>
-    The cost that did conclude it.<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. Every man,<br/>
-    After the hideous storm that follow'd, was<br/>
-    A thing inspir'd, and, not consulting, broke<br/>
-    Into a general prophecy-that this tempest,<br/>
-    Dashing the garment of this peace, aboded<br/>
-    The sudden breach on't.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Which is budded out;<br/>
-    For France hath flaw'd the league, and hath attach'd<br/>
-    Our merchants' goods at Bordeaux.<br/>
-  ABERGAVENNY. Is it therefore<br/>
-    Th' ambassador is silenc'd?<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Marry, is't.<br/>
-  ABERGAVENNY. A proper tide of a peace, and purchas'd<br/>
-    At a superfluous rate!<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. Why, all this business<br/>
-    Our reverend Cardinal carried.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Like it your Grace,<br/>
-    The state takes notice of the private difference<br/>
-    Betwixt you and the Cardinal. I advise you-<br/>
-    And take it from a heart that wishes towards you<br/>
-    Honour and plenteous safety-that you read<br/>
-    The Cardinal's malice and his potency<br/>
-    Together; to consider further, that<br/>
-    What his high hatred would effect wants not<br/>
-    A minister in his power. You know his nature,<br/>
-    That he's revengeful; and I know his sword<br/>
-    Hath a sharp edge-it's long and't may be said<br/>
-    It reaches far, and where 'twill not extend,<br/>
-    Thither he darts it. Bosom up my counsel<br/>
-    You'll find it wholesome. Lo, where comes that rock<br/>
-    That I advise your shunning.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>      Enter CARDINAL WOLSEY, the purse borne
-before
-      him, certain of the guard, and two SECRETARIES
-      with papers. The CARDINAL in his passage fixeth his
-      eye on BUCKINGHAM, and BUCKINGHAM on him,
-      both full of disdain</p>
-<p>  WOLSEY. The Duke of Buckingham's surveyor? Ha!<br/>
-    Where's his examination?<br/>
-  SECRETARY. Here, so please you.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Is he in person ready?<br/>
-  SECRETARY. Ay, please your Grace.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Well, we shall then know more, and Buckingham<br/>
-    shall lessen this big look.<br/>
-                                          Exeunt WOLSEY and his train<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. This butcher's cur is venom-mouth'd, and I<br/>
-    Have not the power to muzzle him; therefore best<br/>
-    Not wake him in his slumber. A beggar's book<br/>
-    Outworths a noble's blood.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. What, are you chaf'd?<br/>
-    Ask God for temp'rance; that's th' appliance only<br/>
-    Which your disease requires.<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. I read in's looks<br/>
-    Matter against me, and his eye revil'd<br/>
-    Me as his abject object. At this instant<br/>
-    He bores me with some trick. He's gone to th' King;<br/>
-    I'll follow, and outstare him.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Stay, my lord,<br/>
-    And let your reason with your choler question<br/>
-    What 'tis you go about. To climb steep hills<br/>
-    Requires slow pace at first. Anger is like<br/>
-    A full hot horse, who being allow'd his way,<br/>
-    Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England<br/>
-    Can advise me like you; be to yourself<br/>
-    As you would to your friend.<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. I'll to the King,<br/>
-    And from a mouth of honour quite cry down<br/>
-    This Ipswich fellow's insolence; or proclaim<br/>
-    There's difference in no persons.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Be advis'd:<br/>
-    Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot<br/>
-    That it do singe yourself. We may outrun<br/>
-    By violent swiftness that which we run at,<br/>
-    And lose by over-running. Know you not<br/>
-    The fire that mounts the liquor till't run o'er<br/>
-    In seeming to augment it wastes it? Be advis'd.<br/>
-    I say again there is no English soul<br/>
-    More stronger to direct you than yourself,<br/>
-    If with the sap of reason you would quench<br/>
-    Or but allay the fire of passion.<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. Sir,<br/>
-    I am thankful to you, and I'll go along<br/>
-    By your prescription; but this top-proud fellow-<br/>
-    Whom from the flow of gan I name not, but<br/>
-    From sincere motions, by intelligence,<br/>
-    And proofs as clear as founts in July when<br/>
-    We see each grain of gravel-I do know<br/>
-    To be corrupt and treasonous.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Say not treasonous.<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. To th' King I'll say't, and make my vouch as strong<br/>
-    As shore of rock. Attend: this holy fox,<br/>
-    Or wolf, or both-for he is equal rav'nous<br/>
-    As he is subtle, and as prone to mischief<br/>
-    As able to perform't, his mind and place<br/>
-    Infecting one another, yea, reciprocally-<br/>
-    Only to show his pomp as well in France<br/>
-    As here at home, suggests the King our master<br/>
-    To this last costly treaty, th' interview<br/>
-    That swallowed so much treasure and like a glass<br/>
-    Did break i' th' wrenching.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Faith, and so it did.<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. Pray, give me favour, sir; this cunning cardinal<br/>
-    The articles o' th' combination drew<br/>
-    As himself pleas'd; and they were ratified<br/>
-    As he cried 'Thus let be' to as much end<br/>
-    As give a crutch to th' dead. But our Count-Cardinal<br/>
-    Has done this, and 'tis well; for worthy Wolsey,<br/>
-    Who cannot err, he did it. Now this follows,<br/>
-    Which, as I take it, is a kind of puppy<br/>
-    To th' old dam treason: Charles the Emperor,<br/>
-    Under pretence to see the Queen his aunt-<br/>
-    For 'twas indeed his colour, but he came<br/>
-    To whisper Wolsey-here makes visitation-<br/>
-    His fears were that the interview betwixt<br/>
-    England and France might through their amity<br/>
-    Breed him some prejudice; for from this league<br/>
-    Peep'd harms that menac'd him-privily<br/>
-    Deals with our Cardinal; and, as I trow-<br/>
-    Which I do well, for I am sure the Emperor<br/>
-    Paid ere he promis'd; whereby his suit was granted<br/>
-    Ere it was ask'd-but when the way was made,<br/>
-    And pav'd with gold, the Emperor thus desir'd,<br/>
-    That he would please to alter the King's course,<br/>
-    And break the foresaid peace. Let the King know,<br/>
-    As soon he shall by me, that thus the Cardinal<br/>
-    Does buy and sell his honour as he pleases,<br/>
-    And for his own advantage.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. I am sorry<br/>
-    To hear this of him, and could wish he were<br/>
-    Something mistaken in't.<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. No, not a syllable:<br/>
-    I do pronounce him in that very shape<br/>
-    He shall appear in proof.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>       Enter BRANDON, a SERGEANT-AT-ARMS before him,<br/>
-              and two or three of the guard<br/>
-</p>
-<p>  BRANDON. Your office, sergeant: execute it.<br/>
-  SERGEANT. Sir,<br/>
-    My lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earl<br/>
-    Of Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton, I<br/>
-    Arrest thee of high treason, in the name<br/>
-    Of our most sovereign King.<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. Lo you, my lord,<br/>
-    The net has fall'n upon me! I shall perish<br/>
-    Under device and practice.<br/>
-  BRANDON. I am sorry<br/>
-    To see you ta'en from liberty, to look on<br/>
-    The business present; 'tis his Highness' pleasure<br/>
-    You shall to th' Tower.<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. It will help nothing<br/>
-    To plead mine innocence; for that dye is on me<br/>
-    Which makes my whit'st part black. The will of heav'n<br/>
-    Be done in this and all things! I obey.<br/>
-    O my Lord Aberga'ny, fare you well!<br/>
-  BRANDON. Nay, he must bear you company.<br/>
-    [To ABERGAVENNY]  The King<br/>
-    Is pleas'd you shall to th' Tower, till you know<br/>
-    How he determines further.<br/>
-  ABERGAVENNY. As the Duke said,<br/>
-    The will of heaven be done, and the King's pleasure<br/>
-    By me obey'd.<br/>
-  BRANDON. Here is warrant from<br/>
-    The King t' attach Lord Montacute and the bodies<br/>
-    Of the Duke's confessor, John de la Car,<br/>
-    One Gilbert Peck, his chancellor-<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. So, so!<br/>
-    These are the limbs o' th' plot; no more, I hope.<br/>
-  BRANDON. A monk o' th' Chartreux.<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. O, Nicholas Hopkins?<br/>
-  BRANDON. He.<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. My surveyor is false. The o'er-great Cardinal<br/>
-    Hath show'd him gold; my life is spann'd already.<br/>
-    I am the shadow of poor Buckingham,<br/>
-    Whose figure even this instant cloud puts on<br/>
-    By dark'ning my clear sun. My lord, farewell.<br/>
-    Exeunt<br/>
-</p>
-<h4>ACT I. SCENE 2.</h4>
-<p>London. The Council Chamber</p>
-<p>Cornets. Enter KING HENRY, leaning on the CARDINAL'S shoulder, the NOBLES,
-and SIR THOMAS LOVELL, with others. The CARDINAL places himself
-under the KING'S feet on his right side</p>
-<p>  KING. My life itself, and the best heart of it,<br/>
-    Thanks you for this great care; I stood i' th' level<br/>
-    Of a full-charg'd confederacy, and give thanks<br/>
-    To you that chok'd it. Let be call'd before us<br/>
-    That gentleman of Buckingham's. In person<br/>
-    I'll hear his confessions justify;<br/>
-    And point by point the treasons of his master<br/>
-    He shall again relate.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>      A noise within, crying 'Room for the
-Queen!'
-      Enter the QUEEN, usher'd by the DUKES OF NORFOLK
-      and SUFFOLK; she kneels. The KING riseth
-      from his state, takes her up, kisses and placeth her
-      by him</p>
-<p>  QUEEN KATHARINE. Nay, we must longer kneel: I am suitor.<br/>
-  KING. Arise, and take place by us. Half your suit<br/>
-    Never name to us: you have half our power.<br/>
-    The other moiety ere you ask is given;<br/>
-    Repeat your will, and take it.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. Thank your Majesty.<br/>
-    That you would love yourself, and in that love<br/>
-    Not unconsidered leave your honour nor<br/>
-    The dignity of your office, is the point<br/>
-    Of my petition.<br/>
-  KING. Lady mine, proceed.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. I am solicited, not by a few,<br/>
-    And those of true condition, that your subjects<br/>
-    Are in great grievance: there have been commissions<br/>
-    Sent down among 'em which hath flaw'd the heart<br/>
-    Of all their loyalties; wherein, although,<br/>
-    My good Lord Cardinal, they vent reproaches<br/>
-    Most bitterly on you as putter-on<br/>
-    Of these exactions, yet the King our master-<br/>
-    Whose honour Heaven shield from soil!-even he escapes not<br/>
-    Language unmannerly; yea, such which breaks<br/>
-    The sides of loyalty, and almost appears<br/>
-    In loud rebellion.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Not almost appears-<br/>
-    It doth appear; for, upon these taxations,<br/>
-    The clothiers all, not able to maintain<br/>
-    The many to them 'longing, have put of<br/>
-    The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who<br/>
-    Unfit for other life, compell'd by hunger<br/>
-    And lack of other means, in desperate manner<br/>
-    Daring th' event to th' teeth, are all in uproar,<br/>
-    And danger serves among them.<br/>
-  KING. Taxation!<br/>
-    Wherein? and what taxation? My Lord Cardinal,<br/>
-    You that are blam'd for it alike with us,<br/>
-    Know you of this taxation?<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Please you, sir,<br/>
-    I know but of a single part in aught<br/>
-    Pertains to th' state, and front but in that file<br/>
-    Where others tell steps with me.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. No, my lord!<br/>
-    You know no more than others! But you frame<br/>
-    Things that are known alike, which are not wholesome<br/>
-    To those which would not know them, and yet must<br/>
-    Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions,<br/>
-    Whereof my sovereign would have note, they are<br/>
-    Most pestilent to th' hearing; and to bear 'em<br/>
-    The back is sacrifice to th' load. They say<br/>
-    They are devis'd by you, or else you suffer<br/>
-    Too hard an exclamation.<br/>
-  KING. Still exaction!<br/>
-    The nature of it? In what kind, let's know,<br/>
-    Is this exaction?<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. I am much too venturous<br/>
-    In tempting of your patience, but am bold'ned<br/>
-    Under your promis'd pardon. The subjects' grief<br/>
-    Comes through commissions, which compels from each<br/>
-    The sixth part of his substance, to be levied<br/>
-    Without delay; and the pretence for this<br/>
-    Is nam'd your wars in France. This makes bold mouths;<br/>
-    Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze<br/>
-    Allegiance in them; their curses now<br/>
-    Live where their prayers did; and it's come to pass<br/>
-    This tractable obedience is a slave<br/>
-    To each incensed will. I would your Highness<br/>
-    Would give it quick consideration, for<br/>
-    There is no primer business.<br/>
-  KING. By my life,<br/>
-    This is against our pleasure.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. And for me,<br/>
-    I have no further gone in this than by<br/>
-    A single voice; and that not pass'd me but<br/>
-    By learned approbation of the judges. If I am<br/>
-    Traduc'd by ignorant tongues, which neither know<br/>
-    My faculties nor person, yet will be<br/>
-    The chronicles of my doing, let me say<br/>
-    'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake<br/>
-    That virtue must go through. We must not stint<br/>
-    Our necessary actions in the fear<br/>
-    To cope malicious censurers, which ever<br/>
-    As rav'nous fishes do a vessel follow<br/>
-    That is new-trimm'd, but benefit no further<br/>
-    Than vainly longing. What we oft do best,<br/>
-    By sick interpreters, once weak ones, is<br/>
-    Not ours, or not allow'd; what worst, as oft<br/>
-    Hitting a grosser quality, is cried up<br/>
-    For our best act. If we shall stand still,<br/>
-    In fear our motion will be mock'd or carp'd at,<br/>
-    We should take root here where we sit, or sit<br/>
-    State-statues only.<br/>
-  KING. Things done well<br/>
-    And with a care exempt themselves from fear:<br/>
-    Things done without example, in their issue<br/>
-    Are to be fear'd. Have you a precedent<br/>
-    Of this commission? I believe, not any.<br/>
-    We must not rend our subjects from our laws,<br/>
-    And stick them in our will. Sixth part of each?<br/>
-    A trembling contribution! Why, we take<br/>
-    From every tree lop, bark, and part o' th' timber;<br/>
-    And though we leave it with a root, thus hack'd,<br/>
-    The air will drink the sap. To every county<br/>
-    Where this is question'd send our letters with<br/>
-    Free pardon to each man that has denied<br/>
-    The force of this commission. Pray, look tot;<br/>
-    I put it to your care.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. [Aside to the SECRETARY]  A word with you.<br/>
-    Let there be letters writ to every shire<br/>
-    Of the King's grace and pardon. The grieved commons<br/>
-    Hardly conceive of me-let it be nois'd<br/>
-    That through our intercession this revokement<br/>
-    And pardon comes. I shall anon advise you<br/>
-    Further in the proceeding.                         Exit SECRETARY<br/>
-</p>
-<p>                    Enter SURVEYOR</p>
-<p>  QUEEN KATHARINE. I am sorry that the Duke of Buckingham<br/>
-    Is run in your displeasure.<br/>
-  KING. It grieves many.<br/>
-    The gentleman is learn'd and a most rare speaker;<br/>
-    To nature none more bound; his training such<br/>
-    That he may furnish and instruct great teachers<br/>
-    And never seek for aid out of himself. Yet see,<br/>
-    When these so noble benefits shall prove<br/>
-    Not well dispos'd, the mind growing once corrupt,<br/>
-    They turn to vicious forms, ten times more ugly<br/>
-    Than ever they were fair. This man so complete,<br/>
-    Who was enroll'd 'mongst wonders, and when we,<br/>
-    Almost with ravish'd list'ning, could not find<br/>
-    His hour of speech a minute-he, my lady,<br/>
-    Hath into monstrous habits put the graces<br/>
-    That once were his, and is become as black<br/>
-    As if besmear'd in hell. Sit by us; you shall hear-<br/>
-    This was his gentleman in trust-of him<br/>
-    Things to strike honour sad. Bid him recount<br/>
-    The fore-recited practices, whereof<br/>
-    We cannot feel too little, hear too much.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Stand forth, and with bold spirit relate what you,<br/>
-    Most like a careful subject, have collected<br/>
-    Out of the Duke of Buckingham.<br/>
-  KING. Speak freely.<br/>
-  SURVEYOR. First, it was usual with him-every day<br/>
-    It would infect his speech-that if the King<br/>
-    Should without issue die, he'll carry it so<br/>
-    To make the sceptre his. These very words<br/>
-    I've heard him utter to his son-in-law,<br/>
-    Lord Aberga'ny, to whom by oath he menac'd<br/>
-    Revenge upon the Cardinal.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Please your Highness, note<br/>
-    This dangerous conception in this point:<br/>
-    Not friended by his wish, to your high person<br/>
-    His will is most malignant, and it stretches<br/>
-    Beyond you to your friends.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. My learn'd Lord Cardinal,<br/>
-    Deliver all with charity.<br/>
-  KING. Speak on.<br/>
-    How grounded he his title to the crown<br/>
-    Upon our fail? To this point hast thou heard him<br/>
-    At any time speak aught?<br/>
-  SURVEYOR. He was brought to this<br/>
-    By a vain prophecy of Nicholas Henton.<br/>
-  KING. What was that Henton?<br/>
-  SURVEYOR. Sir, a Chartreux friar,<br/>
-    His confessor, who fed him every minute<br/>
-    With words of sovereignty.<br/>
-  KING. How know'st thou this?<br/>
-  SURVEYOR. Not long before your Highness sped to France,<br/>
-    The Duke being at the Rose, within the parish<br/>
-    Saint Lawrence Poultney, did of me demand<br/>
-    What was the speech among the Londoners<br/>
-    Concerning the French journey. I replied<br/>
-    Men fear'd the French would prove perfidious,<br/>
-    To the King's danger. Presently the Duke<br/>
-    Said 'twas the fear indeed and that he doubted<br/>
-    'Twould prove the verity of certain words<br/>
-    Spoke by a holy monk 'that oft' says he<br/>
-    'Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit<br/>
-    John de la Car, my chaplain, a choice hour<br/>
-    To hear from him a matter of some moment;<br/>
-    Whom after under the confession's seal<br/>
-    He solemnly had sworn that what he spoke<br/>
-    My chaplain to no creature living but<br/>
-    To me should utter, with demure confidence<br/>
-    This pausingly ensu'd: "Neither the King nor's heirs,<br/>
-    Tell you the Duke, shall prosper; bid him strive<br/>
-    To gain the love o' th' commonalty; the Duke<br/>
-    Shall govern England."'<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. If I know you well,<br/>
-    You were the Duke's surveyor, and lost your office<br/>
-    On the complaint o' th' tenants. Take good heed<br/>
-    You charge not in your spleen a noble person<br/>
-    And spoil your nobler soul. I say, take heed;<br/>
-    Yes, heartily beseech you.<br/>
-  KING. Let him on.<br/>
-    Go forward.<br/>
-  SURVEYOR. On my soul, I'll speak but truth.<br/>
-    I told my lord the Duke, by th' devil's illusions<br/>
-    The monk might be deceiv'd, and that 'twas dangerous<br/>
-      for him<br/>
-    To ruminate on this so far, until<br/>
-    It forg'd him some design, which, being believ'd,<br/>
-    It was much like to do. He answer'd 'Tush,<br/>
-    It can do me no damage'; adding further<br/>
-    That, had the King in his last sickness fail'd,<br/>
-    The Cardinal's and Sir Thomas Lovell's heads<br/>
-    Should have gone off.<br/>
-  KING. Ha! what, so rank? Ah ha!<br/>
-    There's mischief in this man. Canst thou say further?<br/>
-  SURVEYOR. I can, my liege.<br/>
-  KING. Proceed.<br/>
-  SURVEYOR. Being at Greenwich,<br/>
-    After your Highness had reprov'd the Duke<br/>
-    About Sir William Bulmer-<br/>
-  KING. I remember<br/>
-    Of such a time: being my sworn servant,<br/>
-    The Duke retain'd him his. But on: what hence?<br/>
-  SURVEYOR. 'If' quoth he 'I for this had been committed-<br/>
-    As to the Tower I thought-I would have play'd<br/>
-    The part my father meant to act upon<br/>
-    Th' usurper Richard; who, being at Salisbury,<br/>
-    Made suit to come in's presence, which if granted,<br/>
-    As he made semblance of his duty, would<br/>
-    Have put his knife into him.'<br/>
-  KING. A giant traitor!<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Now, madam, may his Highness live in freedom,<br/>
-    And this man out of prison?<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. God mend all!<br/>
-  KING. There's something more would out of thee: what say'st?<br/>
-  SURVEYOR. After 'the Duke his father' with the 'knife,'<br/>
-    He stretch'd him, and, with one hand on his dagger,<br/>
-    Another spread on's breast, mounting his eyes,<br/>
-    He did discharge a horrible oath, whose tenour<br/>
-    Was, were he evil us'd, he would outgo<br/>
-    His father by as much as a performance<br/>
-    Does an irresolute purpose.<br/>
-  KING. There's his period,<br/>
-    To sheath his knife in us. He is attach'd;<br/>
-    Call him to present trial. If he may<br/>
-    Find mercy in the law, 'tis his; if none,<br/>
-    Let him not seek't of us. By day and night!<br/>
-    He's traitor to th' height.                                Exeunt<br/>
-</p>
-<h4>ACT I. SCENE 3.</h4>
-<p>London. The palace</p>
-<p>Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN and LORD SANDYS</p>
-<p>  CHAMBERLAIN. Is't possible the spells of France should juggle<br/>
-    Men into such strange mysteries?<br/>
-  SANDYS. New customs,<br/>
-    Though they be never so ridiculous,<br/>
-    Nay, let 'em be unmanly, yet are follow'd.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. As far as I see, all the good our English<br/>
-    Have got by the late voyage is but merely<br/>
-    A fit or two o' th' face; but they are shrewd ones;<br/>
-    For when they hold 'em, you would swear directly<br/>
-    Their very noses had been counsellors<br/>
-    To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so.<br/>
-  SANDYS. They have all new legs, and lame ones. One would take it,<br/>
-    That never saw 'em pace before, the spavin<br/>
-    Or springhalt reign'd among 'em.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. Death! my lord,<br/>
-    Their clothes are after such a pagan cut to't,<br/>
-    That sure th' have worn out Christendom.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>           Enter SIR THOMAS LOVELL</p>
-<p>    How now?<br/>
-    What news, Sir Thomas Lovell?<br/>
-  LOVELL. Faith, my lord,<br/>
-    I hear of none but the new proclamation<br/>
-    That's clapp'd upon the court gate.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. What is't for?<br/>
-  LOVELL. The reformation of our travell'd gallants,<br/>
-    That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. I am glad 'tis there. Now I would pray our monsieurs<br/>
-    To think an English courtier may be wise,<br/>
-    And never see the Louvre.<br/>
-  LOVELL. They must either,<br/>
-    For so run the conditions, leave those remnants<br/>
-    Of fool and feather that they got in France,<br/>
-    With all their honourable points of ignorance<br/>
-    Pertaining thereunto-as fights and fireworks;<br/>
-    Abusing better men than they can be,<br/>
-    Out of a foreign wisdom-renouncing clean<br/>
-    The faith they have in tennis, and tall stockings,<br/>
-    Short blist'red breeches, and those types of travel<br/>
-    And understand again like honest men,<br/>
-    Or pack to their old playfellows. There, I take it,<br/>
-    They may, cum privilegio, wear away<br/>
-    The lag end of their lewdness and be laugh'd at.<br/>
-  SANDYS. 'Tis time to give 'em physic, their diseases<br/>
-    Are grown so catching.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. What a loss our ladies<br/>
-    Will have of these trim vanities!<br/>
-  LOVELL. Ay, marry,<br/>
-    There will be woe indeed, lords: the sly whoresons<br/>
-    Have got a speeding trick to lay down ladies.<br/>
-    A French song and a fiddle has no fellow.<br/>
-  SANDYS. The devil fiddle 'em! I am glad they are going,<br/>
-    For sure there's no converting 'em. Now<br/>
-    An honest country lord, as I am, beaten<br/>
-    A long time out of play, may bring his plainsong<br/>
-    And have an hour of hearing; and, by'r Lady,<br/>
-    Held current music too.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. Well said, Lord Sandys;<br/>
-    Your colt's tooth is not cast yet.<br/>
-  SANDYS. No, my lord,<br/>
-    Nor shall not while I have a stamp.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. Sir Thomas,<br/>
-    Whither were you a-going?<br/>
-  LOVELL. To the Cardinal's;<br/>
-    Your lordship is a guest too.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. O, 'tis true;<br/>
-    This night he makes a supper, and a great one,<br/>
-    To many lords and ladies; there will be<br/>
-    The beauty of this kingdom, I'll assure you.<br/>
-  LOVELL. That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed,<br/>
-    A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us;<br/>
-    His dews fall everywhere.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. No doubt he's noble;<br/>
-    He had a black mouth that said other of him.<br/>
-  SANDYS. He may, my lord; has wherewithal. In him<br/>
-    Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine:<br/>
-    Men of his way should be most liberal,<br/>
-    They are set here for examples.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. True, they are so;<br/>
-    But few now give so great ones. My barge stays;<br/>
-    Your lordship shall along. Come, good Sir Thomas,<br/>
-    We shall be late else; which I would not be,<br/>
-    For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guildford,<br/>
-    This night to be comptrollers.<br/>
-  SANDYS. I am your lordship's.                                Exeunt<br/>
-</p>
-<h4>ACT I. SCENE 4.</h4>
-<p>London. The Presence Chamber in York Place</p>
-<p>Hautboys. A small table under a state for the Cardinal,
-a longer table for the guests. Then enter ANNE BULLEN,
-and divers other LADIES and GENTLEMEN, as guests, at one door;
-at another door enter SIR HENRY GUILDFORD</p>
-<p>  GUILDFORD. Ladies, a general welcome from his Grace<br/>
-    Salutes ye all; this night he dedicates<br/>
-    To fair content and you. None here, he hopes,<br/>
-    In all this noble bevy, has brought with her<br/>
-    One care abroad; he would have all as merry<br/>
-    As, first, good company, good wine, good welcome,<br/>
-    Can make good people.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>       Enter LORD CHAMBERLAIN, LORD SANDYS, and SIR<br/>
-                  THOMAS LOVELL<br/>
-</p>
-<p>    O, my lord, y'are tardy,<br/>
-    The very thought of this fair company<br/>
-    Clapp'd wings to me.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. You are young, Sir Harry Guildford.<br/>
-  SANDYS. Sir Thomas Lovell, had the Cardinal<br/>
-    But half my lay thoughts in him, some of these<br/>
-    Should find a running banquet ere they rested<br/>
-    I think would better please 'em. By my life,<br/>
-    They are a sweet society of fair ones.<br/>
-  LOVELL. O that your lordship were but now confessor<br/>
-    To one or two of these!<br/>
-  SANDYS. I would I were;<br/>
-    They should find easy penance.<br/>
-  LOVELL. Faith, how easy?<br/>
-  SANDYS. As easy as a down bed would afford it.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. Sweet ladies, will it please you sit? Sir Harry,<br/>
-    Place you that side; I'll take the charge of this.<br/>
-    His Grace is ent'ring. Nay, you must not freeze:<br/>
-    Two women plac'd together makes cold weather.<br/>
-    My Lord Sandys, you are one will keep 'em waking:<br/>
-    Pray sit between these ladies.<br/>
-  SANDYS. By my faith,<br/>
-    And thank your lordship. By your leave, sweet ladies.<br/>
-                 [Seats himself between ANNE BULLEN and another lady]<br/>
-    If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me;<br/>
-    I had it from my father.<br/>
-  ANNE. Was he mad, sir?<br/>
-  SANDYS. O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too.<br/>
-    But he would bite none; just as I do now,<br/>
-    He would kiss you twenty with a breath.              [Kisses her]<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. Well said, my lord.<br/>
-    So, now y'are fairly seated. Gentlemen,<br/>
-    The penance lies on you if these fair ladies<br/>
-    Pass away frowning.<br/>
-  SANDYS. For my little cure,<br/>
-    Let me alone.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>         Hautboys. Enter CARDINAL WOLSEY, attended; and<br/>
-                         takes his state<br/>
-</p>
-<p>  WOLSEY. Y'are welcome, my fair guests. That noble lady<br/>
-    Or gentleman that is not freely merry<br/>
-    Is not my friend. This, to confirm my welcome-<br/>
-    And to you all, good health!                             [Drinks]<br/>
-  SANDYS. Your Grace is noble.<br/>
-    Let me have such a bowl may hold my thanks<br/>
-    And save me so much talking.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. My Lord Sandys,<br/>
-    I am beholding to you. Cheer your neighbours.<br/>
-    Ladies, you are not merry. Gentlemen,<br/>
-    Whose fault is this?<br/>
-  SANDYS. The red wine first must rise<br/>
-    In their fair cheeks, my lord; then we shall have 'em<br/>
-    Talk us to silence.<br/>
-  ANNE. You are a merry gamester,<br/>
-    My Lord Sandys.<br/>
-  SANDYS. Yes, if I make my play.<br/>
-    Here's to your ladyship; and pledge it, madam,<br/>
-    For 'tis to such a thing-<br/>
-  ANNE. You cannot show me.<br/>
-  SANDYS. I told your Grace they would talk anon.<br/>
-                             [Drum and trumpet. Chambers discharg'd]<br/>
-  WOLSEY. What's that?<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. Look out there, some of ye.             Exit a SERVANT<br/>
-  WOLSEY. What warlike voice,<br/>
-    And to what end, is this? Nay, ladies, fear not:<br/>
-    By all the laws of war y'are privileg'd.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>            Re-enter SERVANT</p>
-<p>  CHAMBERLAIN. How now! what is't?<br/>
-  SERVANT. A noble troop of strangers-<br/>
-    For so they seem. Th' have left their barge and landed,<br/>
-    And hither make, as great ambassadors<br/>
-    From foreign princes.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Good Lord Chamberlain,<br/>
-    Go, give 'em welcome; you can speak the French tongue;<br/>
-    And pray receive 'em nobly and conduct 'em<br/>
-    Into our presence, where this heaven of beauty<br/>
-    Shall shine at full upon them. Some attend him.<br/>
-              Exit CHAMBERLAIN attended. All rise, and tables remov'd<br/>
-    You have now a broken banquet, but we'll mend it.<br/>
-    A good digestion to you all; and once more<br/>
-    I show'r a welcome on ye; welcome all.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>      Hautboys. Enter the KING, and others, as maskers,<br/>
-      habited like shepherds, usher'd by the LORD CHAMBERLAIN.<br/>
-      They pass directly before the CARDINAL,<br/>
-      and gracefully salute him<br/>
-</p>
-<p>    A noble company! What are their pleasures?<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. Because they speak no English, thus they pray'd<br/>
-    To tell your Grace, that, having heard by fame<br/>
-    Of this so noble and so fair assembly<br/>
-    This night to meet here, they could do no less,<br/>
-    Out of the great respect they bear to beauty,<br/>
-    But leave their flocks and, under your fair conduct,<br/>
-    Crave leave to view these ladies and entreat<br/>
-    An hour of revels with 'em.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Say, Lord Chamberlain,<br/>
-    They have done my poor house grace; for which I pay 'em<br/>
-    A thousand thanks, and pray 'em take their pleasures.<br/>
-                   [They choose ladies. The KING chooses ANNE BULLEN]<br/>
-  KING. The fairest hand I ever touch'd! O beauty,<br/>
-    Till now I never knew thee!                        [Music. Dance]<br/>
-  WOLSEY. My lord!<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. Your Grace?<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Pray tell 'em thus much from me:<br/>
-    There should be one amongst 'em, by his person,<br/>
-    More worthy this place than myself; to whom,<br/>
-    If I but knew him, with my love and duty<br/>
-    I would surrender it.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. I will, my lord.<br/>
-                                         [He whispers to the maskers]<br/>
-  WOLSEY. What say they?<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. Such a one, they all confess,<br/>
-    There is indeed; which they would have your Grace<br/>
-    Find out, and he will take it.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Let me see, then.                    [Comes from his state]<br/>
-    By all your good leaves, gentlemen, here I'll make<br/>
-    My royal choice.<br/>
-  KING.  [Unmasking]  Ye have found him, Cardinal.<br/>
-    You hold a fair assembly; you do well, lord.<br/>
-    You are a churchman, or, I'll tell you, Cardinal,<br/>
-    I should judge now unhappily.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. I am glad<br/>
-    Your Grace is grown so pleasant.<br/>
-  KING. My Lord Chamberlain,<br/>
-    Prithee come hither: what fair lady's that?<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. An't please your Grace, Sir Thomas Bullen's<br/>
-      daughter-<br/>
-    The Viscount Rochford-one of her Highness' women.<br/>
-  KING. By heaven, she is a dainty one. Sweet heart,<br/>
-    I were unmannerly to take you out<br/>
-    And not to kiss you. A health, gentlemen!<br/>
-    Let it go round.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Sir Thomas Lovell, is the banquet ready<br/>
-    I' th' privy chamber?<br/>
-  LOVELL. Yes, my lord.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Your Grace,<br/>
-    I fear, with dancing is a little heated.<br/>
-  KING. I fear, too much.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. There's fresher air, my lord,<br/>
-    In the next chamber.<br/>
-  KING. Lead in your ladies, ev'ry one. Sweet partner,<br/>
-    I must not yet forsake you. Let's be merry:<br/>
-    Good my Lord Cardinal, I have half a dozen healths<br/>
-    To drink to these fair ladies, and a measure<br/>
-    To lead 'em once again; and then let's dream<br/>
-    Who's best in favour. Let the music knock it.<br/>
-                                                Exeunt, with trumpets<br/>
-</p>
-<h4>ACT II. SCENE 1.</h4>
-<p>Westminster. A street</p>
-<p>Enter two GENTLEMEN, at several doors</p>
-<p>  FIRST GENTLEMAN. Whither away so fast?<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. O, God save ye!<br/>
-    Ev'n to the Hall, to hear what shall become<br/>
-    Of the great Duke of Buckingham.<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. I'll save you<br/>
-    That labour, sir. All's now done but the ceremony<br/>
-    Of bringing back the prisoner.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. Were you there?<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes, indeed, was I.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. Pray, speak what has happen'd.<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. You may guess quickly what.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. Is he found guilty?<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes, truly is he, and condemn'd upon't.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. I am sorry for't.<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. So are a number more.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. But, pray, how pass'd it?<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. I'll tell you in a little. The great Duke.<br/>
-    Came to the bar; where to his accusations<br/>
-    He pleaded still not guilty, and alleged<br/>
-    Many sharp reasons to defeat the law.<br/>
-    The King's attorney, on the contrary,<br/>
-    Urg'd on the examinations, proofs, confessions,<br/>
-    Of divers witnesses; which the Duke desir'd<br/>
-    To have brought, viva voce, to his face;<br/>
-    At which appear'd against him his surveyor,<br/>
-    Sir Gilbert Peck his chancellor, and John Car,<br/>
-    Confessor to him, with that devil-monk,<br/>
-    Hopkins, that made this mischief.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. That was he<br/>
-    That fed him with his prophecies?<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. The same.<br/>
-    All these accus'd him strongly, which he fain<br/>
-    Would have flung from him; but indeed he could not;<br/>
-    And so his peers, upon this evidence,<br/>
-    Have found him guilty of high treason. Much<br/>
-    He spoke, and learnedly, for life; but all<br/>
-    Was either pitied in him or forgotten.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. After all this, how did he bear him-self<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. When he was brought again to th' bar to hear<br/>
-    His knell rung out, his judgment, he was stirr'd<br/>
-    With such an agony he sweat extremely,<br/>
-    And something spoke in choler, ill and hasty;<br/>
-    But he fell to himself again, and sweetly<br/>
-    In all the rest show'd a most noble patience.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. I do not think he fears death.<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. Sure, he does not;<br/>
-    He never was so womanish; the cause<br/>
-    He may a little grieve at.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. Certainly<br/>
-    The Cardinal is the end of this.<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis likely,<br/>
-    By all conjectures: first, Kildare's attainder,<br/>
-    Then deputy of Ireland, who remov'd,<br/>
-    Earl Surrey was sent thither, and in haste too,<br/>
-    Lest he should help his father.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. That trick of state<br/>
-    Was a deep envious one.<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. At his return<br/>
-    No doubt he will requite it. This is noted,<br/>
-    And generally: whoever the King favours<br/>
-    The Cardinal instantly will find employment,<br/>
-    And far enough from court too.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. All the commons<br/>
-    Hate him perniciously, and, o' my conscience,<br/>
-    Wish him ten fathom deep: this Duke as much<br/>
-    They love and dote on; call him bounteous Buckingham,<br/>
-    The mirror of all courtesy-<br/>
-</p>
-<p>      Enter BUCKINGHAM from his arraignment, tip-staves<br/>
-      before him; the axe with the edge towards him; halberds<br/>
-      on each side; accompanied with SIR THOMAS<br/>
-      LOVELL, SIR NICHOLAS VAUX, SIR WILLIAM SANDYS,<br/>
-      and common people, etc.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>  FIRST GENTLEMAN. Stay there, sir,<br/>
-    And see the noble ruin'd man you speak of.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. Let's stand close, and behold him.<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. All good people,<br/>
-    You that thus far have come to pity me,<br/>
-    Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me.<br/>
-    I have this day receiv'd a traitor's judgment,<br/>
-    And by that name must die; yet, heaven bear witness,<br/>
-    And if I have a conscience, let it sink me<br/>
-    Even as the axe falls, if I be not faithful!<br/>
-    The law I bear no malice for my death:<br/>
-    'T has done, upon the premises, but justice.<br/>
-    But those that sought it I could wish more Christians.<br/>
-    Be what they will, I heartily forgive 'em;<br/>
-    Yet let 'em look they glory not in mischief<br/>
-    Nor build their evils on the graves of great men,<br/>
-    For then my guiltless blood must cry against 'em.<br/>
-    For further life in this world I ne'er hope<br/>
-    Nor will I sue, although the King have mercies<br/>
-    More than I dare make faults. You few that lov'd me<br/>
-    And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham,<br/>
-    His noble friends and fellows, whom to leave<br/>
-    Is only bitter to him, only dying,<br/>
-    Go with me like good angels to my end;<br/>
-    And as the long divorce of steel falls on me<br/>
-    Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice,<br/>
-    And lift my soul to heaven. Lead on, a God's name.<br/>
-  LOVELL. I do beseech your Grace, for charity,<br/>
-    If ever any malice in your heart<br/>
-    Were hid against me, now to forgive me frankly.<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. Sir Thomas Lovell, I as free forgive you<br/>
-    As I would be forgiven. I forgive all.<br/>
-    There cannot be those numberless offences<br/>
-    'Gainst me that I cannot take peace with. No black envy<br/>
-    Shall mark my grave. Commend me to his Grace;<br/>
-    And if he speak of Buckingham, pray tell him<br/>
-    You met him half in heaven. My vows and prayers<br/>
-    Yet are the King's, and, till my soul forsake,<br/>
-    Shall cry for blessings on him. May he live<br/>
-    Longer than I have time to tell his years;<br/>
-    Ever belov'd and loving may his rule be;<br/>
-    And when old time Shall lead him to his end,<br/>
-    Goodness and he fill up one monument!<br/>
-  LOVELL. To th' water side I must conduct your Grace;<br/>
-    Then give my charge up to Sir Nicholas Vaux,<br/>
-    Who undertakes you to your end.<br/>
-  VAUX. Prepare there;<br/>
-    The Duke is coming; see the barge be ready;<br/>
-    And fit it with such furniture as suits<br/>
-    The greatness of his person.<br/>
-  BUCKINGHAM. Nay, Sir Nicholas,<br/>
-    Let it alone; my state now will but mock me.<br/>
-    When I came hither I was Lord High Constable<br/>
-    And Duke of Buckingham; now, poor Edward Bohun.<br/>
-    Yet I am richer than my base accusers<br/>
-    That never knew what truth meant; I now seal it;<br/>
-    And with that blood will make 'em one day groan fort.<br/>
-    My noble father, Henry of Buckingham,<br/>
-    Who first rais'd head against usurping Richard,<br/>
-    Flying for succour to his servant Banister,<br/>
-    Being distress'd, was by that wretch betray'd<br/>
-    And without trial fell; God's peace be with him!<br/>
-    Henry the Seventh succeeding, truly pitying<br/>
-    My father's loss, like a most royal prince,<br/>
-    Restor'd me to my honours, and out of ruins<br/>
-    Made my name once more noble. Now his son,<br/>
-    Henry the Eighth, life, honour, name, and all<br/>
-    That made me happy, at one stroke has taken<br/>
-    For ever from the world. I had my trial,<br/>
-    And must needs say a noble one; which makes me<br/>
-    A little happier than my wretched father;<br/>
-    Yet thus far we are one in fortunes: both<br/>
-    Fell by our servants, by those men we lov'd most-<br/>
-    A most unnatural and faithless service.<br/>
-    Heaven has an end in all. Yet, you that hear me,<br/>
-    This from a dying man receive as certain:<br/>
-    Where you are liberal of your loves and counsels,<br/>
-    Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends<br/>
-    And give your hearts to, when they once perceive<br/>
-    The least rub in your fortunes, fall away<br/>
-    Like water from ye, never found again<br/>
-    But where they mean to sink ye. All good people,<br/>
-    Pray for me! I must now forsake ye; the last hour<br/>
-    Of my long weary life is come upon me.<br/>
-    Farewell;<br/>
-    And when you would say something that is sad,<br/>
-    Speak how I fell. I have done; and God forgive me!<br/>
-                                          Exeunt BUCKINGHAM and train<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. O, this is full of pity! Sir, it calls,<br/>
-    I fear, too many curses on their heads<br/>
-    That were the authors.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. If the Duke be guiltless,<br/>
-    'Tis full of woe; yet I can give you inkling<br/>
-    Of an ensuing evil, if it fall,<br/>
-    Greater than this.<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. Good angels keep it from us!<br/>
-    What may it be? You do not doubt my faith, sir?<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. This secret is so weighty, 'twill require<br/>
-    A strong faith to conceal it.<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. Let me have it;<br/>
-    I do not talk much.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. I am confident.<br/>
-    You shall, sir. Did you not of late days hear<br/>
-    A buzzing of a separation<br/>
-    Between the King and Katharine?<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes, but it held not;<br/>
-    For when the King once heard it, out of anger<br/>
-    He sent command to the Lord Mayor straight<br/>
-    To stop the rumour and allay those tongues<br/>
-    That durst disperse it.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. But that slander, sir,<br/>
-    Is found a truth now; for it grows again<br/>
-    Fresher than e'er it was, and held for certain<br/>
-    The King will venture at it. Either the Cardinal<br/>
-    Or some about him near have, out of malice<br/>
-    To the good Queen, possess'd him with a scruple<br/>
-    That will undo her. To confirm this too,<br/>
-    Cardinal Campeius is arriv'd and lately;<br/>
-    As all think, for this business.<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis the Cardinal;<br/>
-    And merely to revenge him on the Emperor<br/>
-    For not bestowing on him at his asking<br/>
-    The archbishopric of Toledo, this is purpos'd.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. I think you have hit the mark; but is't<br/>
-        not cruel<br/>
-    That she should feel the smart of this? The Cardinal<br/>
-    Will have his will, and she must fall.<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis woeful.<br/>
-    We are too open here to argue this;<br/>
-    Let's think in private more.                               Exeunt<br/>
-</p>
-<h4>ACT II. SCENE 2.</h4>
-<p>London. The palace</p>
-<p>Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN reading this letter</p>
-<p>  CHAMBERLAIN. 'My lord,<br/>
-    'The horses your lordship sent for, with all the care<br/>
-    had, I saw well chosen, ridden, and furnish'd. They were<br/>
-    young and handsome, and of the best breed in the north.<br/>
-    When they were ready to set out for London, a man of<br/>
-    my Lord Cardinal's, by commission, and main power, took<br/>
-    'em from me, with this reason: his master would be serv'd<br/>
-    before a subject, if not before the King; which stopp'd<br/>
-    our mouths, sir.'<br/>
-</p>
-<p>    I fear he will indeed. Well, let him have them.<br/>
-    He will have all, I think.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>    Enter to the LORD CHAMBERLAIN the DUKES OF NORFOLK and SUFFOLK</p>
-<p>  NORFOLK. Well met, my Lord Chamberlain.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. Good day to both your Graces.<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. How is the King employ'd?<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. I left him private,<br/>
-    Full of sad thoughts and troubles.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. What's the cause?<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. It seems the marriage with his brother's wife<br/>
-    Has crept too near his conscience.<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. No, his conscience<br/>
-    Has crept too near another lady.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. 'Tis so;<br/>
-    This is the Cardinal's doing; the King-Cardinal,<br/>
-    That blind priest, like the eldest son of fortune,<br/>
-    Turns what he list. The King will know him one day.<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. Pray God he do! He'll never know himself else.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. How holily he works in all his business!<br/>
-    And with what zeal! For, now he has crack'd the league<br/>
-    Between us and the Emperor, the Queen's great nephew,<br/>
-    He dives into the King's soul and there scatters<br/>
-    Dangers, doubts, wringing of the conscience,<br/>
-    Fears, and despairs-and all these for his marriage;<br/>
-    And out of all these to restore the King,<br/>
-    He counsels a divorce, a loss of her<br/>
-    That like a jewel has hung twenty years<br/>
-    About his neck, yet never lost her lustre;<br/>
-    Of her that loves him with that excellence<br/>
-    That angels love good men with; even of her<br/>
-    That, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls,<br/>
-    Will bless the King-and is not this course pious?<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. Heaven keep me from such counsel! 'Tis most true<br/>
-    These news are everywhere; every tongue speaks 'em,<br/>
-    And every true heart weeps for 't. All that dare<br/>
-    Look into these affairs see this main end-<br/>
-    The French King's sister. Heaven will one day open<br/>
-    The King's eyes, that so long have slept upon<br/>
-    This bold bad man.<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. And free us from his slavery.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. We had need pray, and heartily, for our deliverance;<br/>
-    Or this imperious man will work us an<br/>
-    From princes into pages. All men's honours<br/>
-    Lie like one lump before him, to be fashion'd<br/>
-    Into what pitch he please.<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. For me, my lords,<br/>
-    I love him not, nor fear him-there's my creed;<br/>
-    As I am made without him, so I'll stand,<br/>
-    If the King please; his curses and his blessings<br/>
-    Touch me alike; th' are breath I not believe in.<br/>
-    I knew him, and I know him; so I leave him<br/>
-    To him that made him proud-the Pope.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Let's in;<br/>
-    And with some other business put the King<br/>
-    From these sad thoughts that work too much upon him.<br/>
-    My lord, you'll bear us company?<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. Excuse me,<br/>
-    The King has sent me otherwhere; besides,<br/>
-    You'll find a most unfit time to disturb him.<br/>
-    Health to your lordships!<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Thanks, my good Lord Chamberlain.<br/>
-                            Exit LORD CHAMBERLAIN; and the KING draws<br/>
-                               the curtain and sits reading pensively<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. How sad he looks; sure, he is much afflicted.<br/>
-  KING. Who's there, ha?<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Pray God he be not angry.<br/>
-  KING HENRY. Who's there, I say? How dare you thrust yourselves<br/>
-    Into my private meditations?<br/>
-    Who am I, ha?<br/>
-  NORFOLK. A gracious king that pardons all offences<br/>
-    Malice ne'er meant. Our breach of duty this way<br/>
-    Is business of estate, in which we come<br/>
-    To know your royal pleasure.<br/>
-  KING. Ye are too bold.<br/>
-    Go to; I'll make ye know your times of business.<br/>
-    Is this an hour for temporal affairs, ha?<br/>
-</p>
-<p>      Enter WOLSEY and CAMPEIUS with a commission</p>
-<p>    Who's there? My good Lord Cardinal? O my Wolsey,<br/>
-    The quiet of my wounded conscience,<br/>
-    Thou art a cure fit for a King.  [To CAMPEIUS]  You're<br/>
-      welcome,<br/>
-    Most learned reverend sir, into our kingdom.<br/>
-    Use us and it.  [To WOLSEY]  My good lord, have great care<br/>
-    I be not found a talker.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Sir, you cannot.<br/>
-    I would your Grace would give us but an hour<br/>
-    Of private conference.<br/>
-  KING.  [To NORFOLK and SUFFOLK]  We are busy; go.<br/>
-  NORFOLK.  [Aside to SUFFOLK]  This priest has no pride in him!<br/>
-  SUFFOLK.  [Aside to NORFOLK]  Not to speak of!<br/>
-    I would not be so sick though for his place.<br/>
-    But this cannot continue.<br/>
-  NORFOLK.  [Aside to SUFFOLK]  If it do,<br/>
-    I'll venture one have-at-him.<br/>
-  SUFFOLK.  [Aside to NORFOLK]  I another.<br/>
-                                           Exeunt NORFOLK and SUFFOLK<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Your Grace has given a precedent of wisdom<br/>
-    Above all princes, in committing freely<br/>
-    Your scruple to the voice of Christendom.<br/>
-    Who can be angry now? What envy reach you?<br/>
-    The Spaniard, tied by blood and favour to her,<br/>
-    Must now confess, if they have any goodness,<br/>
-    The trial just and noble. All the clerks,<br/>
-    I mean the learned ones, in Christian kingdoms<br/>
-    Have their free voices. Rome the nurse of judgment,<br/>
-    Invited by your noble self, hath sent<br/>
-    One general tongue unto us, this good man,<br/>
-    This just and learned priest, Cardinal Campeius,<br/>
-    Whom once more I present unto your Highness.<br/>
-  KING. And once more in mine arms I bid him welcome,<br/>
-    And thank the holy conclave for their loves.<br/>
-    They have sent me such a man I would have wish'd for.<br/>
-  CAMPEIUS. Your Grace must needs deserve an strangers' loves,<br/>
-    You are so noble. To your Highness' hand<br/>
-    I tender my commission; by whose virtue-<br/>
-    The court of Rome commanding-you, my Lord<br/>
-    Cardinal of York, are join'd with me their servant<br/>
-    In the unpartial judging of this business.<br/>
-  KING. Two equal men. The Queen shall be acquainted<br/>
-    Forthwith for what you come. Where's Gardiner?<br/>
-  WOLSEY. I know your Majesty has always lov'd her<br/>
-    So dear in heart not to deny her that<br/>
-    A woman of less place might ask by law-<br/>
-    Scholars allow'd freely to argue for her.<br/>
-  KING. Ay, and the best she shall have; and my favour<br/>
-    To him that does best. God forbid else. Cardinal,<br/>
-    Prithee call Gardiner to me, my new secretary;<br/>
-    I find him a fit fellow.                              Exit WOLSEY<br/>
-</p>
-<p>          Re-enter WOLSEY with GARDINER</p>
-<p>  WOLSEY.  [Aside to GARDINER]  Give me your hand: much<br/>
-      joy and favour to you;<br/>
-    You are the King's now.<br/>
-  GARDINER.  [Aside to WOLSEY]  But to be commanded<br/>
-    For ever by your Grace, whose hand has rais'd me.<br/>
-  KING. Come hither, Gardiner.                   [Walks and whispers]<br/>
-  CAMPEIUS. My Lord of York, was not one Doctor Pace<br/>
-    In this man's place before him?<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Yes, he was.<br/>
-  CAMPEIUS. Was he not held a learned man?<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Yes, surely.<br/>
-  CAMPEIUS. Believe me, there's an ill opinion spread then,<br/>
-    Even of yourself, Lord Cardinal.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. How! Of me?<br/>
-  CAMPEIUS. They will not stick to say you envied him<br/>
-    And, fearing he would rise, he was so virtuous,<br/>
-    Kept him a foreign man still; which so griev'd him<br/>
-    That he ran mad and died.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Heav'n's peace be with him!<br/>
-    That's Christian care enough. For living murmurers<br/>
-    There's places of rebuke. He was a fool,<br/>
-    For he would needs be virtuous: that good fellow,<br/>
-    If I command him, follows my appointment.<br/>
-    I will have none so near else. Learn this, brother,<br/>
-    We live not to be grip'd by meaner persons.<br/>
-  KING. Deliver this with modesty to th' Queen.<br/>
-                                                        Exit GARDINER<br/>
-    The most convenient place that I can think of<br/>
-    For such receipt of learning is Blackfriars;<br/>
-    There ye shall meet about this weighty business-<br/>
-    My Wolsey, see it furnish'd. O, my lord,<br/>
-    Would it not grieve an able man to leave<br/>
-    So sweet a bedfellow? But, conscience, conscience!<br/>
-    O, 'tis a tender place! and I must leave her.              Exeunt<br/>
-</p>
-<h4>ACT II. SCENE 3.</h4>
-<p>London. The palace</p>
-<p>Enter ANNE BULLEN and an OLD LADY</p>
-<p>  ANNE. Not for that neither. Here's the pang that pinches:<br/>
-    His Highness having liv'd so long with her, and she<br/>
-    So good a lady that no tongue could ever<br/>
-    Pronounce dishonour of her-by my life,<br/>
-    She never knew harm-doing-O, now, after<br/>
-    So many courses of the sun enthroned,<br/>
-    Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which<br/>
-    To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than<br/>
-    'Tis sweet at first t' acquire-after this process,<br/>
-    To give her the avaunt, it is a pity<br/>
-    Would move a monster.<br/>
-  OLD LADY. Hearts of most hard temper<br/>
-    Melt and lament for her.<br/>
-  ANNE. O, God's will! much better<br/>
-    She ne'er had known pomp; though't be temporal,<br/>
-    Yet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce<br/>
-    It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance panging<br/>
-    As soul and body's severing.<br/>
-  OLD LADY. Alas, poor lady!<br/>
-    She's a stranger now again.<br/>
-  ANNE. So much the more<br/>
-    Must pity drop upon her. Verily,<br/>
-    I swear 'tis better to be lowly born<br/>
-    And range with humble livers in content<br/>
-    Than to be perk'd up in a glist'ring grief<br/>
-    And wear a golden sorrow.<br/>
-  OLD LADY. Our content<br/>
-    Is our best having.<br/>
-  ANNE. By my troth and maidenhead,<br/>
-    I would not be a queen.<br/>
-  OLD LADY. Beshrew me, I would,<br/>
-    And venture maidenhead for 't; and so would you,<br/>
-    For all this spice of your hypocrisy.<br/>
-    You that have so fair parts of woman on you<br/>
-    Have too a woman's heart, which ever yet<br/>
-    Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty;<br/>
-    Which, to say sooth, are blessings; and which gifts,<br/>
-    Saving your mincing, the capacity<br/>
-    Of your soft cheveril conscience would receive<br/>
-    If you might please to stretch it.<br/>
-  ANNE. Nay, good troth.<br/>
-  OLD LADY. Yes, troth and troth. You would not be a queen!<br/>
-  ANNE. No, not for all the riches under heaven.<br/>
-  OLD LADY. 'Tis strange: a threepence bow'd would hire me,<br/>
-    Old as I am, to queen it. But, I pray you,<br/>
-    What think you of a duchess? Have you limbs<br/>
-    To bear that load of title?<br/>
-  ANNE. No, in truth.<br/>
-  OLD LADY. Then you are weakly made. Pluck off a little;<br/>
-    I would not be a young count in your way<br/>
-    For more than blushing comes to. If your back<br/>
-    Cannot vouchsafe this burden, 'tis too weak<br/>
-    Ever to get a boy.<br/>
-  ANNE. How you do talk!<br/>
-    I swear again I would not be a queen<br/>
-    For all the world.<br/>
-  OLD LADY. In faith, for little England<br/>
-    You'd venture an emballing. I myself<br/>
-    Would for Carnarvonshire, although there long'd<br/>
-    No more to th' crown but that. Lo, who comes here?<br/>
-</p>
-<p>         Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN</p>
-<p>  CHAMBERLAIN. Good morrow, ladies. What were't worth to know<br/>
-    The secret of your conference?<br/>
-  ANNE. My good lord,<br/>
-    Not your demand; it values not your asking.<br/>
-    Our mistress' sorrows we were pitying.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. It was a gentle business and becoming<br/>
-    The action of good women; there is hope<br/>
-    All will be well.<br/>
-  ANNE. Now, I pray God, amen!<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. You bear a gentle mind, and heav'nly blessings<br/>
-    Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady,<br/>
-    Perceive I speak sincerely and high notes<br/>
-    Ta'en of your many virtues, the King's Majesty<br/>
-    Commends his good opinion of you to you, and<br/>
-    Does purpose honour to you no less flowing<br/>
-    Than Marchioness of Pembroke; to which tide<br/>
-    A thousand pound a year, annual support,<br/>
-    Out of his grace he adds.<br/>
-  ANNE. I do not know<br/>
-    What kind of my obedience I should tender;<br/>
-    More than my all is nothing, nor my prayers<br/>
-    Are not words duly hallowed, nor my wishes<br/>
-    More worth than empty vanities; yet prayers and wishes<br/>
-    Are all I can return. Beseech your lordship,<br/>
-    Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience,<br/>
-    As from a blushing handmaid, to his Highness;<br/>
-    Whose health and royalty I pray for.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. Lady,<br/>
-    I shall not fail t' approve the fair conceit<br/>
-    The King hath of you.  [Aside]  I have perus'd her well:<br/>
-    Beauty and honour in her are so mingled<br/>
-    That they have caught the King; and who knows yet<br/>
-    But from this lady may proceed a gem<br/>
-    To lighten all this isle?-I'll to the King<br/>
-    And say I spoke with you.<br/>
-  ANNE. My honour'd lord!                       Exit LORD CHAMBERLAIN<br/>
-  OLD LADY. Why, this it is: see, see!<br/>
-    I have been begging sixteen years in court-<br/>
-    Am yet a courtier beggarly-nor could<br/>
-    Come pat betwixt too early and too late<br/>
-    For any suit of pounds; and you, O fate!<br/>
-    A very fresh-fish here-fie, fie, fie upon<br/>
-    This compell'd fortune!-have your mouth fill'd up<br/>
-    Before you open it.<br/>
-  ANNE. This is strange to me.<br/>
-  OLD LADY. How tastes it? Is it bitter? Forty pence, no.<br/>
-    There was a lady once-'tis an old story-<br/>
-    That would not be a queen, that would she not,<br/>
-    For all the mud in Egypt. Have you heard it?<br/>
-  ANNE. Come, you are pleasant.<br/>
-  OLD LADY. With your theme I could<br/>
-    O'ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke!<br/>
-    A thousand pounds a year for pure respect!<br/>
-    No other obligation! By my life,<br/>
-    That promises moe thousands: honour's train<br/>
-    Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time<br/>
-    I know your back will bear a duchess. Say,<br/>
-    Are you not stronger than you were?<br/>
-  ANNE. Good lady,<br/>
-    Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy,<br/>
-    And leave me out on't. Would I had no being,<br/>
-    If this salute my blood a jot; it faints me<br/>
-    To think what follows.<br/>
-    The Queen is comfortless, and we forgetful<br/>
-    In our long absence. Pray, do not deliver<br/>
-    What here y' have heard to her.<br/>
-  OLD LADY. What do you think me?                              Exeunt<br/>
-</p>
-<h4>ACT II. SCENE 4.</h4>
-<p>London. A hall in Blackfriars</p>
-<p>Trumpets, sennet, and cornets. Enter two VERGERS, with short silver wands;
-next them, two SCRIBES, in the habit of doctors; after them,
-the ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY alone; after him, the BISHOPS OF LINCOLN, ELY,
-ROCHESTER, and SAINT ASAPH; next them, with some small distance,
-follows a GENTLEMAN bearing the purse, with the great seal,
-and a Cardinal's hat; then two PRIESTS, bearing each silver cross;
-then a GENTLEMAN USHER bareheaded, accompanied with a SERGEANT-AT-ARMS
-bearing a silver mace; then two GENTLEMEN bearing two great silver pillars;
-after them, side by side, the two CARDINALS, WOLSEY and CAMPEIUS;
-two NOBLEMEN with the sword and mace. Then enter the KING and QUEEN
-and their trains. The KING takes place under the cloth of state;
-the two CARDINALS sit under him as judges. The QUEEN takes place
-some distance from the KING. The BISHOPS place themselves on each side
-of the court, in manner of consistory; below them the SCRIBES.
-The LORDS sit next the BISHOPS. The rest of the attendants stand
-in convenient order about the stage</p>
-<p>  WOLSEY. Whilst our commission from Rome is read,<br/>
-    Let silence be commanded.<br/>
-  KING. What's the need?<br/>
-    It hath already publicly been read,<br/>
-    And on all sides th' authority allow'd;<br/>
-    You may then spare that time.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Be't so; proceed.<br/>
-  SCRIBE. Say 'Henry King of England, come into the court.'<br/>
-  CRIER. Henry King of England, &amp;amp;c.<br/>
-  KING. Here.<br/>
-  SCRIBE. Say 'Katharine Queen of England, come into the court.'<br/>
-  CRIER. Katharine Queen of England, &amp;amp;c.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>     The QUEEN makes no answer, rises out of her chair,<br/>
-     goes about the court, comes to the KING, and kneels<br/>
-     at his feet; then speaks<br/>
-</p>
-<p>  QUEEN KATHARINE. Sir, I desire you do me right and justice,<br/>
-    And to bestow your pity on me; for<br/>
-    I am a most poor woman and a stranger,<br/>
-    Born out of your dominions, having here<br/>
-    No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance<br/>
-    Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir,<br/>
-    In what have I offended you? What cause<br/>
-    Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure<br/>
-    That thus you should proceed to put me of<br/>
-    And take your good grace from me? Heaven witness,<br/>
-    I have been to you a true and humble wife,<br/>
-    At all times to your will conformable,<br/>
-    Ever in fear to kindle your dislike,<br/>
-    Yea, subject to your countenance-glad or sorry<br/>
-    As I saw it inclin'd. When was the hour<br/>
-    I ever contradicted your desire<br/>
-    Or made it not mine too? Or which of your friends<br/>
-    Have I not strove to love, although I knew<br/>
-    He were mine enemy? What friend of mine<br/>
-    That had to him deriv'd your anger did<br/>
-    Continue in my liking? Nay, gave notice<br/>
-    He was from thence discharg'd? Sir, call to mind<br/>
-    That I have been your wife in this obedience<br/>
-    Upward of twenty years, and have been blest<br/>
-    With many children by you. If, in the course<br/>
-    And process of this time, you can report,<br/>
-    And prove it too against mine honour, aught,<br/>
-    My bond to wedlock or my love and duty,<br/>
-    Against your sacred person, in God's name,<br/>
-    Turn me away and let the foul'st contempt<br/>
-    Shut door upon me, and so give me up<br/>
-    To the sharp'st kind of justice. Please you, sir,<br/>
-    The King, your father, was reputed for<br/>
-    A prince most prudent, of an excellent<br/>
-    And unmatch'd wit and judgment; Ferdinand,<br/>
-    My father, King of Spain, was reckon'd one<br/>
-    The wisest prince that there had reign'd by many<br/>
-    A year before. It is not to be question'd<br/>
-    That they had gather'd a wise council to them<br/>
-    Of every realm, that did debate this business,<br/>
-    Who deem'd our marriage lawful. Wherefore I humbly<br/>
-    Beseech you, sir, to spare me till I may<br/>
-    Be by my friends in Spain advis'd, whose counsel<br/>
-    I will implore. If not, i' th' name of God,<br/>
-    Your pleasure be fulfill'd!<br/>
-  WOLSEY. You have here, lady,<br/>
-    And of your choice, these reverend fathers-men<br/>
-    Of singular integrity and learning,<br/>
-    Yea, the elect o' th' land, who are assembled<br/>
-    To plead your cause. It shall be therefore bootless<br/>
-    That longer you desire the court, as well<br/>
-    For your own quiet as to rectify<br/>
-    What is unsettled in the King.<br/>
-  CAMPEIUS. His Grace<br/>
-    Hath spoken well and justly; therefore, madam,<br/>
-    It's fit this royal session do proceed<br/>
-    And that, without delay, their arguments<br/>
-    Be now produc'd and heard.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. Lord Cardinal,<br/>
-    To you I speak.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Your pleasure, madam?<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. Sir,<br/>
-    I am about to weep; but, thinking that<br/>
-    We are a queen, or long have dream'd so, certain<br/>
-    The daughter of a king, my drops of tears<br/>
-    I'll turn to sparks of fire.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Be patient yet.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. I Will, when you are humble; nay, before<br/>
-    Or God will punish me. I do believe,<br/>
-    Induc'd by potent circumstances, that<br/>
-    You are mine enemy, and make my challenge<br/>
-    You shall not be my judge; for it is you<br/>
-    Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me-<br/>
-    Which God's dew quench! Therefore I say again,<br/>
-    I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul<br/>
-    Refuse you for my judge, whom yet once more<br/>
-    I hold my most malicious foe and think not<br/>
-    At all a friend to truth.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. I do profess<br/>
-    You speak not like yourself, who ever yet<br/>
-    Have stood to charity and display'd th' effects<br/>
-    Of disposition gentle and of wisdom<br/>
-    O'ertopping woman's pow'r. Madam, you do me wrong:<br/>
-    I have no spleen against you, nor injustice<br/>
-    For you or any; how far I have proceeded,<br/>
-    Or how far further shall, is warranted<br/>
-    By a commission from the Consistory,<br/>
-    Yea, the whole Consistory of Rome. You charge me<br/>
-    That I have blown this coal: I do deny it.<br/>
-    The King is present; if it be known to him<br/>
-    That I gainsay my deed, how may he wound,<br/>
-    And worthily, my falsehood! Yea, as much<br/>
-    As you have done my truth. If he know<br/>
-    That I am free of your report, he knows<br/>
-    I am not of your wrong. Therefore in him<br/>
-    It lies to cure me, and the cure is to<br/>
-    Remove these thoughts from you; the which before<br/>
-    His Highness shall speak in, I do beseech<br/>
-    You, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking<br/>
-    And to say so no more.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. My lord, my lord,<br/>
-    I am a simple woman, much too weak<br/>
-    T' oppose your cunning. Y'are meek and humble-mouth'd;<br/>
-    You sign your place and calling, in full seeming,<br/>
-    With meekness and humility; but your heart<br/>
-    Is cramm'd with arrogancy, spleen, and pride.<br/>
-    You have, by fortune and his Highness' favours,<br/>
-    Gone slightly o'er low steps, and now are mounted<br/>
-    Where pow'rs are your retainers, and your words,<br/>
-    Domestics to you, serve your will as't please<br/>
-    Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you<br/>
-    You tender more your person's honour than<br/>
-    Your high profession spiritual; that again<br/>
-    I do refuse you for my judge and here,<br/>
-    Before you all, appeal unto the Pope,<br/>
-    To bring my whole cause 'fore his Holiness<br/>
-    And to be judg'd by him.<br/>
-                     [She curtsies to the KING, and offers to depart]<br/>
-  CAMPEIUS. The Queen is obstinate,<br/>
-    Stubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and<br/>
-    Disdainful to be tried by't; 'tis not well.<br/>
-    She's going away.<br/>
-  KING. Call her again.<br/>
-  CRIER. Katharine Queen of England, come into the court.<br/>
-  GENTLEMAN USHER. Madam, you are call'd back.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. What need you note it? Pray you keep your way;<br/>
-    When you are call'd, return. Now the Lord help!<br/>
-    They vex me past my patience. Pray you pass on.<br/>
-    I will not tarry; no, nor ever more<br/>
-    Upon this business my appearance make<br/>
-    In any of their courts.           Exeunt QUEEN and her attendants<br/>
-  KING. Go thy ways, Kate.<br/>
-    That man i' th' world who shall report he has<br/>
-    A better wife, let him in nought be trusted<br/>
-    For speaking false in that. Thou art, alone-<br/>
-    If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness,<br/>
-    Thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government,<br/>
-    Obeying in commanding, and thy parts<br/>
-    Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out-<br/>
-    The queen of earthly queens. She's noble born;<br/>
-    And like her true nobility she has<br/>
-    Carried herself towards me.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Most gracious sir,<br/>
-    In humblest manner I require your Highness<br/>
-    That it shall please you to declare in hearing<br/>
-    Of all these ears-for where I am robb'd and bound,<br/>
-    There must I be unloos'd, although not there<br/>
-    At once and fully satisfied-whether ever I<br/>
-    Did broach this business to your Highness, or<br/>
-    Laid any scruple in your way which might<br/>
-    Induce you to the question on't, or ever<br/>
-    Have to you, but with thanks to God for such<br/>
-    A royal lady, spake one the least word that might<br/>
-    Be to the prejudice of her present state,<br/>
-    Or touch of her good person?<br/>
-  KING. My Lord Cardinal,<br/>
-    I do excuse you; yea, upon mine honour,<br/>
-    I free you from't. You are not to be taught<br/>
-    That you have many enemies that know not<br/>
-    Why they are so, but, like to village curs,<br/>
-    Bark when their fellows do. By some of these<br/>
-    The Queen is put in anger. Y'are excus'd.<br/>
-    But will you be more justified? You ever<br/>
-    Have wish'd the sleeping of this business; never desir'd<br/>
-    It to be stirr'd; but oft have hind'red, oft,<br/>
-    The passages made toward it. On my honour,<br/>
-    I speak my good Lord Cardinal to this point,<br/>
-    And thus far clear him. Now, what mov'd me to't,<br/>
-    I will be bold with time and your attention.<br/>
-    Then mark th' inducement. Thus it came-give heed to't:<br/>
-    My conscience first receiv'd a tenderness,<br/>
-    Scruple, and prick, on certain speeches utter'd<br/>
-    By th' Bishop of Bayonne, then French ambassador,<br/>
-    Who had been hither sent on the debating<br/>
-    A marriage 'twixt the Duke of Orleans and<br/>
-    Our daughter Mary. I' th' progress of this business,<br/>
-    Ere a determinate resolution, he-<br/>
-    I mean the Bishop-did require a respite<br/>
-    Wherein he might the King his lord advertise<br/>
-    Whether our daughter were legitimate,<br/>
-    Respecting this our marriage with the dowager,<br/>
-    Sometimes our brother's wife. This respite shook<br/>
-    The bosom of my conscience, enter'd me,<br/>
-    Yea, with a splitting power, and made to tremble<br/>
-    The region of my breast, which forc'd such way<br/>
-    That many maz'd considerings did throng<br/>
-    And press'd in with this caution. First, methought<br/>
-    I stood not in the smile of heaven, who had<br/>
-    Commanded nature that my lady's womb,<br/>
-    If it conceiv'd a male child by me, should<br/>
-    Do no more offices of life to't than<br/>
-    The grave does to the dead; for her male issue<br/>
-    Or died where they were made, or shortly after<br/>
-    This world had air'd them. Hence I took a thought<br/>
-    This was a judgment on me, that my kingdom,<br/>
-    Well worthy the best heir o' th' world, should not<br/>
-    Be gladded in't by me. Then follows that<br/>
-    I weigh'd the danger which my realms stood in<br/>
-    By this my issue's fail, and that gave to me<br/>
-    Many a groaning throe. Thus hulling in<br/>
-    The wild sea of my conscience, I did steer<br/>
-    Toward this remedy, whereupon we are<br/>
-    Now present here together; that's to say<br/>
-    I meant to rectify my conscience, which<br/>
-    I then did feel full sick, and yet not well,<br/>
-    By all the reverend fathers of the land<br/>
-    And doctors learn'd. First, I began in private<br/>
-    With you, my Lord of Lincoln; you remember<br/>
-    How under my oppression I did reek,<br/>
-    When I first mov'd you.<br/>
-  LINCOLN. Very well, my liege.<br/>
-  KING. I have spoke long; be pleas'd yourself to say<br/>
-    How far you satisfied me.<br/>
-  LINCOLN. So please your Highness,<br/>
-    The question did at first so stagger me-<br/>
-    Bearing a state of mighty moment in't<br/>
-    And consequence of dread-that I committed<br/>
-    The daring'st counsel which I had to doubt,<br/>
-    And did entreat your Highness to this course<br/>
-    Which you are running here.<br/>
-  KING. I then mov'd you,<br/>
-    My Lord of Canterbury, and got your leave<br/>
-    To make this present summons. Unsolicited<br/>
-    I left no reverend person in this court,<br/>
-    But by particular consent proceeded<br/>
-    Under your hands and seals; therefore, go on,<br/>
-    For no dislike i' th' world against the person<br/>
-    Of the good Queen, but the sharp thorny points<br/>
-    Of my alleged reasons, drives this forward.<br/>
-    Prove but our marriage lawful, by my life<br/>
-    And kingly dignity, we are contented<br/>
-    To wear our moral state to come with her,<br/>
-    Katharine our queen, before the primest creature<br/>
-    That's paragon'd o' th' world.<br/>
-  CAMPEIUS. So please your Highness,<br/>
-    The Queen being absent, 'tis a needful fitness<br/>
-    That we adjourn this court till further day;<br/>
-    Meanwhile must be an earnest motion<br/>
-    Made to the Queen to call back her appeal<br/>
-    She intends unto his Holiness.<br/>
-  KING.  [Aside]  I may perceive<br/>
-    These cardinals trifle with me. I abhor<br/>
-    This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome.<br/>
-    My learn'd and well-beloved servant, Cranmer,<br/>
-    Prithee return. With thy approach I know<br/>
-    My comfort comes along. -Break up the court;<br/>
-    I say, set on.                   Exuent in manner as they entered<br/>
-</p>
-<h4>ACT III. SCENE 1.</h4>
-<p>London. The QUEEN'S apartments</p>
-<p>Enter the QUEEN and her women, as at work</p>
-<p>  QUEEN KATHARINE. Take thy lute, wench. My soul grows<br/>
-      sad with troubles;<br/>
-    Sing and disperse 'em, if thou canst. Leave working.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>                    SONG</p>
-<p>        Orpheus with his lute made trees,<br/>
-        And the mountain tops that freeze,<br/>
-          Bow themselves when he did sing;<br/>
-        To his music plants and flowers<br/>
-        Ever sprung, as sun and showers<br/>
-          There had made a lasting spring.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>        Every thing that heard him play,<br/>
-        Even the billows of the sea,<br/>
-          Hung their heads and then lay by.<br/>
-        In sweet music is such art,<br/>
-        Killing care and grief of heart<br/>
-          Fall asleep or hearing die.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>              Enter a GENTLEMAN</p>
-<p>  QUEEN KATHARINE. How now?<br/>
-  GENTLEMAN. An't please your Grace, the two great Cardinals<br/>
-    Wait in the presence.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. Would they speak with me?<br/>
-  GENTLEMAN. They will'd me say so, madam.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. Pray their Graces<br/>
-    To come near. [Exit GENTLEMAN] What can be their business<br/>
-    With me, a poor weak woman, fall'n from favour?<br/>
-    I do not like their coming. Now I think on't,<br/>
-    They should be good men, their affairs as righteous;<br/>
-    But all hoods make not monks.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>         Enter the two CARDINALS, WOLSEY and CAMPEIUS</p>
-<p>  WOLSEY. Peace to your Highness!<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. Your Graces find me here part of housewife;<br/>
-    I would be all, against the worst may happen.<br/>
-    What are your pleasures with me, reverend lords?<br/>
-  WOLSEY. May it please you, noble madam, to withdraw<br/>
-    Into your private chamber, we shall give you<br/>
-    The full cause of our coming.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. Speak it here;<br/>
-    There's nothing I have done yet, o' my conscience,<br/>
-    Deserves a corner. Would all other women<br/>
-    Could speak this with as free a soul as I do!<br/>
-    My lords, I care not-so much I am happy<br/>
-    Above a number-if my actions<br/>
-    Were tried by ev'ry tongue, ev'ry eye saw 'em,<br/>
-    Envy and base opinion set against 'em,<br/>
-    I know my life so even. If your business<br/>
-    Seek me out, and that way I am wife in,<br/>
-    Out with it boldly; truth loves open dealing.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Tanta est erga te mentis integritas, regina serenis-sima-<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. O, good my lord, no Latin!<br/>
-    I am not such a truant since my coming,<br/>
-    As not to know the language I have liv'd in;<br/>
-    A strange tongue makes my cause more strange, suspicious;<br/>
-    Pray speak in English. Here are some will thank you,<br/>
-    If you speak truth, for their poor mistress' sake:<br/>
-    Believe me, she has had much wrong. Lord Cardinal,<br/>
-    The willing'st sin I ever yet committed<br/>
-    May be absolv'd in English.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Noble lady,<br/>
-    I am sorry my integrity should breed,<br/>
-    And service to his Majesty and you,<br/>
-    So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant<br/>
-    We come not by the way of accusation<br/>
-    To taint that honour every good tongue blesses,<br/>
-    Nor to betray you any way to sorrow-<br/>
-    You have too much, good lady; but to know<br/>
-    How you stand minded in the weighty difference<br/>
-    Between the King and you, and to deliver,<br/>
-    Like free and honest men, our just opinions<br/>
-    And comforts to your cause.<br/>
-  CAMPEIUS. Most honour'd madam,<br/>
-    My Lord of York, out of his noble nature,<br/>
-    Zeal and obedience he still bore your Grace,<br/>
-    Forgetting, like a good man, your late censure<br/>
-    Both of his truth and him-which was too far-<br/>
-    Offers, as I do, in a sign of peace,<br/>
-    His service and his counsel.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE.  [Aside]  To betray me.-<br/>
-    My lords, I thank you both for your good wins;<br/>
-    Ye speak like honest men-pray God ye prove so!<br/>
-    But how to make ye suddenly an answer,<br/>
-    In such a point of weight, so near mine honour,<br/>
-    More near my life, I fear, with my weak wit,<br/>
-    And to such men of gravity and learning,<br/>
-    In truth I know not. I was set at work<br/>
-    Among my maids, full little, God knows, looking<br/>
-    Either for such men or such business.<br/>
-    For her sake that I have been-for I feel<br/>
-    The last fit of my greatness-good your Graces,<br/>
-    Let me have time and counsel for my cause.<br/>
-    Alas, I am a woman, friendless, hopeless!<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Madam, you wrong the King's love with these fears;<br/>
-    Your hopes and friends are infinite.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. In England<br/>
-    But little for my profit; can you think, lords,<br/>
-    That any Englishman dare give me counsel?<br/>
-    Or be a known friend, 'gainst his Highness' pleasure-<br/>
-    Though he be grown so desperate to be honest-<br/>
-    And live a subject? Nay, forsooth, my friends,<br/>
-    They that must weigh out my afflictions,<br/>
-    They that my trust must grow to, live not here;<br/>
-    They are, as all my other comforts, far hence,<br/>
-    In mine own country, lords.<br/>
-  CAMPEIUS. I would your Grace<br/>
-    Would leave your griefs, and take my counsel.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. How, sir?<br/>
-  CAMPEIUS. Put your main cause into the King's protection;<br/>
-    He's loving and most gracious. 'Twill be much<br/>
-    Both for your honour better and your cause;<br/>
-    For if the trial of the law o'ertake ye<br/>
-    You'll part away disgrac'd.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. He tells you rightly.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. Ye tell me what ye wish for both-my ruin.<br/>
-    Is this your Christian counsel? Out upon ye!<br/>
-    Heaven is above all yet: there sits a Judge<br/>
-    That no king can corrupt.<br/>
-  CAMPEIUS. Your rage mistakes us.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. The more shame for ye; holy men I thought ye,<br/>
-    Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues;<br/>
-    But cardinal sins and hollow hearts I fear ye.<br/>
-    Mend 'em, for shame, my lords. Is this your comfort?<br/>
-    The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady-<br/>
-    A woman lost among ye, laugh'd at, scorn'd?<br/>
-    I will not wish ye half my miseries:<br/>
-    I have more charity; but say I warned ye.<br/>
-    Take heed, for heaven's sake take heed, lest at once<br/>
-    The burden of my sorrows fall upon ye.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Madam, this is a mere distraction;<br/>
-    You turn the good we offer into envy.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. Ye turn me into nothing. Woe upon ye,<br/>
-    And all such false professors! Would you have me-<br/>
-    If you have any justice, any pity,<br/>
-    If ye be any thing but churchmen's habits-<br/>
-    Put my sick cause into his hands that hates me?<br/>
-    Alas! has banish'd me his bed already,<br/>
-    His love too long ago! I am old, my lords,<br/>
-    And all the fellowship I hold now with him<br/>
-    Is only my obedience. What can happen<br/>
-    To me above this wretchedness? All your studies<br/>
-    Make me a curse like this.<br/>
-  CAMPEIUS. Your fears are worse.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. Have I liv'd thus long-let me speak myself,<br/>
-    Since virtue finds no friends-a wife, a true one?<br/>
-    A woman, I dare say without vain-glory,<br/>
-    Never yet branded with suspicion?<br/>
-    Have I with all my full affections<br/>
-    Still met the King, lov'd him next heav'n, obey'd him,<br/>
-    Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him,<br/>
-    Almost forgot my prayers to content him,<br/>
-    And am I thus rewarded? 'Tis not well, lords.<br/>
-    Bring me a constant woman to her husband,<br/>
-    One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure,<br/>
-    And to that woman, when she has done most,<br/>
-    Yet will I add an honour-a great patience.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Madam, you wander from the good we aim at.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty,<br/>
-    To give up willingly that noble title<br/>
-    Your master wed me to: nothing but death<br/>
-    Shall e'er divorce my dignities.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Pray hear me.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. Would I had never trod this English earth,<br/>
-    Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it!<br/>
-    Ye have angels' faces, but heaven knows your hearts.<br/>
-    What will become of me now, wretched lady?<br/>
-    I am the most unhappy woman living.<br/>
-    [To her WOMEN]  Alas, poor wenches, where are now<br/>
-      your fortunes?<br/>
-    Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity,<br/>
-    No friends, no hope; no kindred weep for me;<br/>
-    Almost no grave allow'd me. Like the My,<br/>
-    That once was mistress of the field, and flourish'd,<br/>
-    I'll hang my head and perish.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. If your Grace<br/>
-    Could but be brought to know our ends are honest,<br/>
-    You'd feel more comfort. Why should we, good lady,<br/>
-    Upon what cause, wrong you? Alas, our places,<br/>
-    The way of our profession is against it;<br/>
-    We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow 'em.<br/>
-    For goodness' sake, consider what you do;<br/>
-    How you may hurt yourself, ay, utterly<br/>
-    Grow from the King's acquaintance, by this carriage.<br/>
-    The hearts of princes kiss obedience,<br/>
-    So much they love it; but to stubborn spirits<br/>
-    They swell and grow as terrible as storms.<br/>
-    I know you have a gentle, noble temper,<br/>
-    A soul as even as a calm. Pray think us<br/>
-    Those we profess, peace-makers, friends, and servants.<br/>
-  CAMPEIUS. Madam, you'll find it so. You wrong your virtues<br/>
-    With these weak women's fears. A noble spirit,<br/>
-    As yours was put into you, ever casts<br/>
-    Such doubts as false coin from it. The King loves you;<br/>
-    Beware you lose it not. For us, if you please<br/>
-    To trust us in your business, we are ready<br/>
-    To use our utmost studies in your service.<br/>
-  QUEEN KATHARINE. Do what ye will my lords; and pray<br/>
-      forgive me<br/>
-    If I have us'd myself unmannerly;<br/>
-    You know I am a woman, lacking wit<br/>
-    To make a seemly answer to such persons.<br/>
-    Pray do my service to his Majesty;<br/>
-    He has my heart yet, and shall have my prayers<br/>
-    While I shall have my life. Come, reverend fathers,<br/>
-    Bestow your counsels on me; she now begs<br/>
-    That little thought, when she set footing here,<br/>
-    She should have bought her dignities so dear.              Exeunt<br/>
-</p>
-<h4>ACT III.SCENE 2.</h4>
-<p>London. The palace</p>
-<p>Enter the DUKE OF NORFOLK, the DUKE OF SUFFOLK, the EARL OF SURREY,
-and the LORD CHAMBERLAIN</p>
-<p>  NORFOLK. If you will now unite in your complaints<br/>
-    And force them with a constancy, the Cardinal<br/>
-    Cannot stand under them: if you omit<br/>
-    The offer of this time, I cannot promise<br/>
-    But that you shall sustain moe new disgraces<br/>
-    With these you bear already.<br/>
-  SURREY. I am joyful<br/>
-    To meet the least occasion that may give me<br/>
-    Remembrance of my father-in-law, the Duke,<br/>
-    To be reveng'd on him.<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. Which of the peers<br/>
-    Have uncontemn'd gone by him, or at least<br/>
-    Strangely neglected? When did he regard<br/>
-    The stamp of nobleness in any person<br/>
-    Out of himself?<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. My lords, you speak your pleasures.<br/>
-    What he deserves of you and me I know;<br/>
-    What we can do to him-though now the time<br/>
-    Gives way to us-I much fear. If you cannot<br/>
-    Bar his access to th' King, never attempt<br/>
-    Anything on him; for he hath a witchcraft<br/>
-    Over the King in's tongue.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. O, fear him not!<br/>
-    His spell in that is out; the King hath found<br/>
-    Matter against him that for ever mars<br/>
-    The honey of his language. No, he's settled,<br/>
-    Not to come off, in his displeasure.<br/>
-  SURREY. Sir,<br/>
-    I should be glad to hear such news as this<br/>
-    Once every hour.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Believe it, this is true:<br/>
-    In the divorce his contrary proceedings<br/>
-    Are all unfolded; wherein he appears<br/>
-    As I would wish mine enemy.<br/>
-  SURREY. How came<br/>
-    His practices to light?<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. Most Strangely.<br/>
-  SURREY. O, how, how?<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. The Cardinal's letters to the Pope miscarried,<br/>
-    And came to th' eye o' th' King; wherein was read<br/>
-    How that the Cardinal did entreat his Holiness<br/>
-    To stay the judgment o' th' divorce; for if<br/>
-    It did take place, 'I do' quoth he 'perceive<br/>
-    My king is tangled in affection to<br/>
-    A creature of the Queen's, Lady Anne Bullen.'<br/>
-  SURREY. Has the King this?<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. Believe it.<br/>
-  SURREY. Will this work?<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. The King in this perceives him how he coasts<br/>
-    And hedges his own way. But in this point<br/>
-    All his tricks founder, and he brings his physic<br/>
-    After his patient's death: the King already<br/>
-    Hath married the fair lady.<br/>
-  SURREY. Would he had!<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. May you be happy in your wish, my lord!<br/>
-    For, I profess, you have it.<br/>
-  SURREY. Now, all my joy<br/>
-    Trace the conjunction!<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. My amen to't!<br/>
-  NORFOLK. An men's!<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. There's order given for her coronation;<br/>
-    Marry, this is yet but young, and may be left<br/>
-    To some ears unrecounted. But, my lords,<br/>
-    She is a gallant creature, and complete<br/>
-    In mind and feature. I persuade me from her<br/>
-    Will fall some blessing to this land, which shall<br/>
-    In it be memoriz'd.<br/>
-  SURREY. But will the King<br/>
-    Digest this letter of the Cardinal's?<br/>
-    The Lord forbid!<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Marry, amen!<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. No, no;<br/>
-    There be moe wasps that buzz about his nose<br/>
-    Will make this sting the sooner. Cardinal Campeius<br/>
-    Is stol'n away to Rome; hath ta'en no leave;<br/>
-    Has left the cause o' th' King unhandled, and<br/>
-    Is posted, as the agent of our Cardinal,<br/>
-    To second all his plot. I do assure you<br/>
-    The King cried 'Ha!' at this.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. Now, God incense him,<br/>
-    And let him cry 'Ha!' louder!<br/>
-  NORFOLK. But, my lord,<br/>
-    When returns Cranmer?<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. He is return'd in his opinions; which<br/>
-    Have satisfied the King for his divorce,<br/>
-    Together with all famous colleges<br/>
-    Almost in Christendom. Shortly, I believe,<br/>
-    His second marriage shall be publish'd, and<br/>
-    Her coronation. Katharine no more<br/>
-    Shall be call'd queen, but princess dowager<br/>
-    And widow to Prince Arthur.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. This same Cranmer's<br/>
-    A worthy fellow, and hath ta'en much pain<br/>
-    In the King's business.<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. He has; and we shall see him<br/>
-    For it an archbishop.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. So I hear.<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. 'Tis so.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>        Enter WOLSEY and CROMWELL</p>
-<p>    The Cardinal!<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Observe, observe, he's moody.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. The packet, Cromwell,<br/>
-    Gave't you the King?<br/>
-  CROMWELL. To his own hand, in's bedchamber.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Look'd he o' th' inside of the paper?<br/>
-  CROMWELL. Presently<br/>
-    He did unseal them; and the first he view'd,<br/>
-    He did it with a serious mind; a heed<br/>
-    Was in his countenance. You he bade<br/>
-    Attend him here this morning.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Is he ready<br/>
-    To come abroad?<br/>
-  CROMWELL. I think by this he is.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Leave me awhile.                              Exit CROMWELL<br/>
-    [Aside]  It shall be to the Duchess of Alencon,<br/>
-    The French King's sister; he shall marry her.<br/>
-    Anne Bullen! No, I'll no Anne Bullens for him;<br/>
-    There's more in't than fair visage. Bullen!<br/>
-    No, we'll no Bullens. Speedily I wish<br/>
-    To hear from Rome. The Marchioness of Pembroke!<br/>
-  NORFOLK. He's discontented.<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. May be he hears the King<br/>
-    Does whet his anger to him.<br/>
-  SURREY. Sharp enough,<br/>
-    Lord, for thy justice!<br/>
-  WOLSEY.  [Aside]  The late Queen's gentlewoman, a knight's<br/>
-      daughter,<br/>
-    To be her mistress' mistress! The Queen's queen!<br/>
-    This candle burns not clear. 'Tis I must snuff it;<br/>
-    Then out it goes. What though I know her virtuous<br/>
-    And well deserving? Yet I know her for<br/>
-    A spleeny Lutheran; and not wholesome to<br/>
-    Our cause that she should lie i' th' bosom of<br/>
-    Our hard-rul'd King. Again, there is sprung up<br/>
-    An heretic, an arch one, Cranmer; one<br/>
-    Hath crawl'd into the favour of the King,<br/>
-    And is his oracle.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. He is vex'd at something.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>        Enter the KING, reading of a schedule, and LOVELL</p>
-<p>  SURREY. I would 'twere something that would fret the string,<br/>
-    The master-cord on's heart!<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. The King, the King!<br/>
-  KING. What piles of wealth hath he accumulated<br/>
-    To his own portion! And what expense by th' hour<br/>
-    Seems to flow from him! How, i' th' name of thrift,<br/>
-    Does he rake this together?-Now, my lords,<br/>
-    Saw you the Cardinal?<br/>
-  NORFOLK. My lord, we have<br/>
-    Stood here observing him. Some strange commotion<br/>
-    Is in his brain: he bites his lip and starts,<br/>
-    Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground,<br/>
-    Then lays his finger on his temple; straight<br/>
-    Springs out into fast gait; then stops again,<br/>
-    Strikes his breast hard; and anon he casts<br/>
-    His eye against the moon. In most strange postures<br/>
-    We have seen him set himself.<br/>
-  KING. It may well be<br/>
-    There is a mutiny in's mind. This morning<br/>
-    Papers of state he sent me to peruse,<br/>
-    As I requir'd; and wot you what I found<br/>
-    There-on my conscience, put unwittingly?<br/>
-    Forsooth, an inventory, thus importing<br/>
-    The several parcels of his plate, his treasure,<br/>
-    Rich stuffs, and ornaments of household; which<br/>
-    I find at such proud rate that it outspeaks<br/>
-    Possession of a subject.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. It's heaven's will;<br/>
-    Some spirit put this paper in the packet<br/>
-    To bless your eye withal.<br/>
-  KING. If we did think<br/>
-    His contemplation were above the earth<br/>
-    And fix'd on spiritual object, he should still<br/>
-    dwell in his musings; but I am afraid<br/>
-    His thinkings are below the moon, not worth<br/>
-    His serious considering.<br/>
-                        [The KING takes his seat and whispers LOVELL,<br/>
-                                           who goes to the CARDINAL]<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Heaven forgive me!<br/>
-    Ever God bless your Highness!<br/>
-  KING. Good, my lord,<br/>
-    You are full of heavenly stuff, and bear the inventory<br/>
-    Of your best graces in your mind; the which<br/>
-    You were now running o'er. You have scarce time<br/>
-    To steal from spiritual leisure a brief span<br/>
-    To keep your earthly audit; sure, in that<br/>
-    I deem you an ill husband, and am glad<br/>
-    To have you therein my companion.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Sir,<br/>
-    For holy offices I have a time; a time<br/>
-    To think upon the part of business which<br/>
-    I bear i' th' state; and nature does require<br/>
-    Her times of preservation, which perforce<br/>
-    I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal,<br/>
-    Must give my tendance to.<br/>
-  KING. You have said well.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. And ever may your Highness yoke together,<br/>
-    As I will lend you cause, my doing well<br/>
-    With my well saying!<br/>
-  KING. 'Tis well said again;<br/>
-    And 'tis a kind of good deed to say well;<br/>
-    And yet words are no deeds. My father lov'd you:<br/>
-    He said he did; and with his deed did crown<br/>
-    His word upon you. Since I had my office<br/>
-    I have kept you next my heart; have not alone<br/>
-    Employ'd you where high profits might come home,<br/>
-    But par'd my present havings to bestow<br/>
-    My bounties upon you.<br/>
-  WOLSEY.  [Aside]  What should this mean?<br/>
-  SURREY.  [Aside]  The Lord increase this business!<br/>
-  KING. Have I not made you<br/>
-    The prime man of the state? I pray you tell me<br/>
-    If what I now pronounce you have found true;<br/>
-    And, if you may confess it, say withal<br/>
-    If you are bound to us or no. What say you?<br/>
-  WOLSEY. My sovereign, I confess your royal graces,<br/>
-    Show'r'd on me daily, have been more than could<br/>
-    My studied purposes requite; which went<br/>
-    Beyond all man's endeavours. My endeavours,<br/>
-    Have ever come too short of my desires,<br/>
-    Yet fil'd with my abilities; mine own ends<br/>
-    Have been mine so that evermore they pointed<br/>
-    To th' good of your most sacred person and<br/>
-    The profit of the state. For your great graces<br/>
-    Heap'd upon me, poor undeserver, I<br/>
-    Can nothing render but allegiant thanks;<br/>
-    My pray'rs to heaven for you; my loyalty,<br/>
-    Which ever has and ever shall be growing,<br/>
-    Till death, that winter, kill it.<br/>
-  KING. Fairly answer'd!<br/>
-    A loyal and obedient subject is<br/>
-    Therein illustrated; the honour of it<br/>
-    Does pay the act of it, as, i' th' contrary,<br/>
-    The foulness is the punishment. I presume<br/>
-    That, as my hand has open'd bounty to you,<br/>
-    My heart dropp'd love, my pow'r rain'd honour, more<br/>
-    On you than any, so your hand and heart,<br/>
-    Your brain, and every function of your power,<br/>
-    Should, notwithstanding that your bond of duty,<br/>
-    As 'twere in love's particular, be more<br/>
-    To me, your friend, than any.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. I do profess<br/>
-    That for your Highness' good I ever labour'd<br/>
-    More than mine own; that am, have, and will be-<br/>
-    Though all the world should crack their duty to you,<br/>
-    And throw it from their soul; though perils did<br/>
-    Abound as thick as thought could make 'em, and<br/>
-    Appear in forms more horrid-yet my duty,<br/>
-    As doth a rock against the chiding flood,<br/>
-    Should the approach of this wild river break,<br/>
-    And stand unshaken yours.<br/>
-  KING. 'Tis nobly spoken.<br/>
-    Take notice, lords, he has a loyal breast,<br/>
-    For you have seen him open 't. Read o'er this;<br/>
-                                                  [Giving him papers]<br/>
-    And after, this; and then to breakfast with<br/>
-    What appetite you have.<br/>
-                Exit the KING, frowning upon the CARDINAL; the NOBLES<br/>
-                             throng after him, smiling and whispering<br/>
-  WOLSEY. What should this mean?<br/>
-    What sudden anger's this? How have I reap'd it?<br/>
-    He parted frowning from me, as if ruin<br/>
-    Leap'd from his eyes; so looks the chafed lion<br/>
-    Upon the daring huntsman that has gall'd him-<br/>
-    Then makes him nothing. I must read this paper;<br/>
-    I fear, the story of his anger. 'Tis so;<br/>
-    This paper has undone me. 'Tis th' account<br/>
-    Of all that world of wealth I have drawn together<br/>
-    For mine own ends; indeed to gain the popedom,<br/>
-    And fee my friends in Rome. O negligence,<br/>
-    Fit for a fool to fall by! What cross devil<br/>
-    Made me put this main secret in the packet<br/>
-    I sent the King? Is there no way to cure this?<br/>
-    No new device to beat this from his brains?<br/>
-    I know 'twill stir him strongly; yet I know<br/>
-    A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune,<br/>
-    Will bring me off again. What's this? 'To th' Pope.'<br/>
-    The letter, as I live, with all the business<br/>
-    I writ to's Holiness. Nay then, farewell!<br/>
-    I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness,<br/>
-    And from that full meridian of my glory<br/>
-    I haste now to my setting. I shall fall<br/>
-    Like a bright exhalation in the evening,<br/>
-    And no man see me more.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>        Re-enter to WOLSEY the DUKES OF NORFOLK and<br/>
-        SUFFOLK, the EARL OF SURREY, and the LORD<br/>
-        CHAMBERLAIN<br/>
-</p>
-<p>  NORFOLK. Hear the King's pleasure, Cardinal, who commands you<br/>
-    To render up the great seal presently<br/>
-    Into our hands, and to confine yourself<br/>
-    To Asher House, my Lord of Winchester's,<br/>
-    Till you hear further from his Highness.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Stay:<br/>
-    Where's your commission, lords? Words cannot carry<br/>
-    Authority so weighty.<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. Who dares cross 'em,<br/>
-    Bearing the King's will from his mouth expressly?<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Till I find more than will or words to do it-<br/>
-    I mean your malice-know, officious lords,<br/>
-    I dare and must deny it. Now I feel<br/>
-    Of what coarse metal ye are moulded-envy;<br/>
-    How eagerly ye follow my disgraces,<br/>
-    As if it fed ye; and how sleek and wanton<br/>
-    Ye appear in every thing may bring my ruin!<br/>
-    Follow your envious courses, men of malice;<br/>
-    You have Christian warrant for 'em, and no doubt<br/>
-    In time will find their fit rewards. That seal<br/>
-    You ask with such a violence, the King-<br/>
-    Mine and your master-with his own hand gave me;<br/>
-    Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours,<br/>
-    During my life; and, to confirm his goodness,<br/>
-    Tied it by letters-patents. Now, who'll take it?<br/>
-  SURREY. The King, that gave it.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. It must be himself then.<br/>
-  SURREY. Thou art a proud traitor, priest.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Proud lord, thou liest.<br/>
-    Within these forty hours Surrey durst better<br/>
-    Have burnt that tongue than said so.<br/>
-  SURREY. Thy ambition,<br/>
-    Thou scarlet sin, robb'd this bewailing land<br/>
-    Of noble Buckingham, my father-in-law.<br/>
-    The heads of all thy brother cardinals,<br/>
-    With thee and all thy best parts bound together,<br/>
-    Weigh'd not a hair of his. Plague of your policy!<br/>
-    You sent me deputy for Ireland;<br/>
-    Far from his succour, from the King, from all<br/>
-    That might have mercy on the fault thou gav'st him;<br/>
-    Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity,<br/>
-    Absolv'd him with an axe.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. This, and all else<br/>
-    This talking lord can lay upon my credit,<br/>
-    I answer is most false. The Duke by law<br/>
-    Found his deserts; how innocent I was<br/>
-    From any private malice in his end,<br/>
-    His noble jury and foul cause can witness.<br/>
-    If I lov'd many words, lord, I should tell you<br/>
-    You have as little honesty as honour,<br/>
-    That in the way of loyalty and truth<br/>
-    Toward the King, my ever royal master,<br/>
-    Dare mate a sounder man than Surrey can be<br/>
-    And an that love his follies.<br/>
-  SURREY. By my soul,<br/>
-    Your long coat, priest, protects you; thou shouldst feel<br/>
-    My sword i' the life-blood of thee else. My lords<br/>
-    Can ye endure to hear this arrogance?<br/>
-    And from this fellow? If we live thus tamely,<br/>
-    To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet,<br/>
-    Farewell nobility! Let his Grace go forward<br/>
-    And dare us with his cap like larks.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. All goodness<br/>
-    Is poison to thy stomach.<br/>
-  SURREY. Yes, that goodness<br/>
-    Of gleaning all the land's wealth into one,<br/>
-    Into your own hands, Cardinal, by extortion;<br/>
-    The goodness of your intercepted packets<br/>
-    You writ to th' Pope against the King; your goodness,<br/>
-    Since you provoke me, shall be most notorious.<br/>
-    My Lord of Norfolk, as you are truly noble,<br/>
-    As you respect the common good, the state<br/>
-    Of our despis'd nobility, our issues,<br/>
-    Whom, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen-<br/>
-    Produce the grand sum of his sins, the articles<br/>
-    Collected from his life. I'll startle you<br/>
-    Worse than the sacring bell, when the brown wench<br/>
-    Lay kissing in your arms, Lord Cardinal.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. How much, methinks, I could despise this man,<br/>
-    But that I am bound in charity against it!<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Those articles, my lord, are in the King's hand;<br/>
-    But, thus much, they are foul ones.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. So much fairer<br/>
-    And spotless shall mine innocence arise,<br/>
-    When the King knows my truth.<br/>
-  SURREY. This cannot save you.<br/>
-    I thank my memory I yet remember<br/>
-    Some of these articles; and out they shall.<br/>
-    Now, if you can blush and cry guilty, Cardinal,<br/>
-    You'll show a little honesty.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Speak on, sir;<br/>
-    I dare your worst objections. If I blush,<br/>
-    It is to see a nobleman want manners.<br/>
-  SURREY. I had rather want those than my head. Have at you!<br/>
-    First, that without the King's assent or knowledge<br/>
-    You wrought to be a legate; by which power<br/>
-    You maim'd the jurisdiction of all bishops.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or else<br/>
-    To foreign princes, 'Ego et Rex meus'<br/>
-    Was still inscrib'd; in which you brought the King<br/>
-    To be your servant.<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. Then, that without the knowledge<br/>
-    Either of King or Council, when you went<br/>
-    Ambassador to the Emperor, you made bold<br/>
-    To carry into Flanders the great seal.<br/>
-  SURREY. Item, you sent a large commission<br/>
-    To Gregory de Cassado, to conclude,<br/>
-    Without the King's will or the state's allowance,<br/>
-    A league between his Highness and Ferrara.<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. That out of mere ambition you have caus'd<br/>
-    Your holy hat to be stamp'd on the King's coin.<br/>
-  SURREY. Then, that you have sent innumerable substance,<br/>
-    By what means got I leave to your own conscience,<br/>
-    To furnish Rome and to prepare the ways<br/>
-    You have for dignities, to the mere undoing<br/>
-    Of all the kingdom. Many more there are,<br/>
-    Which, since they are of you, and odious,<br/>
-    I will not taint my mouth with.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. O my lord,<br/>
-    Press not a falling man too far! 'Tis virtue.<br/>
-    His faults lie open to the laws; let them,<br/>
-    Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him<br/>
-    So little of his great self.<br/>
-  SURREY. I forgive him.<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. Lord Cardinal, the King's further pleasure is-<br/>
-    Because all those things you have done of late,<br/>
-    By your power legatine within this kingdom,<br/>
-    Fall into th' compass of a praemunire-<br/>
-    That therefore such a writ be sued against you:<br/>
-    To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements,<br/>
-    Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be<br/>
-    Out of the King's protection. This is my charge.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. And so we'll leave you to your meditations<br/>
-    How to live better. For your stubborn answer<br/>
-    About the giving back the great seal to us,<br/>
-    The King shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank you.<br/>
-    So fare you well, my little good Lord Cardinal.<br/>
-                                                Exeunt all but WOLSEY<br/>
-  WOLSEY. So farewell to the little good you bear me.<br/>
-    Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!<br/>
-    This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth<br/>
-    The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms<br/>
-    And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;<br/>
-    The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,<br/>
-    And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely<br/>
-    His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,<br/>
-    And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,<br/>
-    Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,<br/>
-    This many summers in a sea of glory;<br/>
-    But far beyond my depth. My high-blown pride<br/>
-    At length broke under me, and now has left me,<br/>
-    Weary and old with service, to the mercy<br/>
-    Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.<br/>
-    Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye;<br/>
-    I feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched<br/>
-    Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!<br/>
-    There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,<br/>
-    That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin<br/>
-    More pangs and fears than wars or women have;<br/>
-    And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,<br/>
-    Never to hope again.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>         Enter CROMWELL, standing amazed</p>
-<p>    Why, how now, Cromwell!<br/>
-  CROMWELL. I have no power to speak, sir.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. What, amaz'd<br/>
-    At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder<br/>
-    A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep,<br/>
-    I am fall'n indeed.<br/>
-  CROMWELL. How does your Grace?<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Why, well;<br/>
-    Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.<br/>
-    I know myself now, and I feel within me<br/>
-    A peace above all earthly dignities,<br/>
-    A still and quiet conscience. The King has cur'd me,<br/>
-    I humbly thank his Grace; and from these shoulders,<br/>
-    These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken<br/>
-    A load would sink a navy-too much honour.<br/>
-    O, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden<br/>
-    Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven!<br/>
-  CROMWELL. I am glad your Grace has made that right use of it.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. I hope I have. I am able now, methinks,<br/>
-    Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,<br/>
-    To endure more miseries and greater far<br/>
-    Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.<br/>
-    What news abroad?<br/>
-  CROMWELL. The heaviest and the worst<br/>
-    Is your displeasure with the King.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. God bless him!<br/>
-  CROMWELL. The next is that Sir Thomas More is chosen<br/>
-    Lord Chancellor in your place.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. That's somewhat sudden.<br/>
-    But he's a learned man. May he continue<br/>
-    Long in his Highness' favour, and do justice<br/>
-    For truth's sake and his conscience; that his bones<br/>
-    When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings,<br/>
-    May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on him!<br/>
-    What more?<br/>
-  CROMWELL. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome,<br/>
-    Install'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. That's news indeed.<br/>
-  CROMWELL. Last, that the Lady Anne,<br/>
-    Whom the King hath in secrecy long married,<br/>
-    This day was view'd in open as his queen,<br/>
-    Going to chapel; and the voice is now<br/>
-    Only about her coronation.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. There was the weight that pull'd me down.<br/>
-      O Cromwell,<br/>
-    The King has gone beyond me. All my glories<br/>
-    In that one woman I have lost for ever.<br/>
-    No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours,<br/>
-    Or gild again the noble troops that waited<br/>
-    Upon my smiles. Go get thee from me, Cromwell;<br/>
-    I am a poor fall'n man, unworthy now<br/>
-    To be thy lord and master. Seek the King;<br/>
-    That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him<br/>
-    What and how true thou art. He will advance thee;<br/>
-    Some little memory of me will stir him-<br/>
-    I know his noble nature-not to let<br/>
-    Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell,<br/>
-    Neglect him not; make use now, and provide<br/>
-    For thine own future safety.<br/>
-  CROMWELL. O my lord,<br/>
-    Must I then leave you? Must I needs forgo<br/>
-    So good, so noble, and so true a master?<br/>
-    Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,<br/>
-    With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.<br/>
-    The King shall have my service; but my prayers<br/>
-    For ever and for ever shall be yours.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear<br/>
-    In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me,<br/>
-    Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.<br/>
-    Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell,<br/>
-    And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,<br/>
-    And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention<br/>
-    Of me more must be heard of, say I taught thee-<br/>
-    Say Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,<br/>
-    And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,<br/>
-    Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in-<br/>
-    A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.<br/>
-    Mark but my fall and that that ruin'd me.<br/>
-    Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:<br/>
-    By that sin fell the angels. How can man then,<br/>
-    The image of his Maker, hope to win by it?<br/>
-    Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee;<br/>
-    Corruption wins not more than honesty.<br/>
-    Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace<br/>
-    To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not;<br/>
-    Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,<br/>
-    Thy God's, and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,<br/>
-    Thou fall'st a blessed martyr!<br/>
-    Serve the King, and-prithee lead me in.<br/>
-    There take an inventory of all I have<br/>
-    To the last penny; 'tis the King's. My robe,<br/>
-    And my integrity to heaven, is all<br/>
-    I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!<br/>
-    Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal<br/>
-    I serv'd my King, he would not in mine age<br/>
-    Have left me naked to mine enemies.<br/>
-  CROMWELL. Good sir, have patience.<br/>
-  WOLSEY. So I have. Farewell<br/>
-    The hopes of court! My hopes in heaven do dwell.           Exeunt<br/>
-</p>
-<h4>ACT IV. SCENE 1.</h4>
-<p>A street in Westminster</p>
-<p>Enter two GENTLEMEN, meeting one another</p>
-<p>  FIRST GENTLEMAN. Y'are well met once again.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. So are you.<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. You come to take your stand here, and<br/>
-      behold<br/>
-    The Lady Anne pass from her coronation?<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. 'Tis all my business. At our last encounter<br/>
-    The Duke of Buckingham came from his trial.<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis very true. But that time offer'd<br/>
-      sorrow;<br/>
-    This, general joy.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. 'Tis well. The citizens,<br/>
-    I am sure, have shown at full their royal minds-<br/>
-    As, let 'em have their rights, they are ever forward-<br/>
-    In celebration of this day with shows,<br/>
-    Pageants, and sights of honour.<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. Never greater,<br/>
-    Nor, I'll assure you, better taken, sir.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. May I be bold to ask what that contains,<br/>
-    That paper in your hand?<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes; 'tis the list<br/>
-    Of those that claim their offices this day,<br/>
-    By custom of the coronation.<br/>
-    The Duke of Suffolk is the first, and claims<br/>
-    To be High Steward; next, the Duke of Norfolk,<br/>
-    He to be Earl Marshal. You may read the rest.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. I thank you, sir; had I not known<br/>
-      those customs,<br/>
-    I should have been beholding to your paper.<br/>
-    But, I beseech you, what's become of Katharine,<br/>
-    The Princess Dowager? How goes her business?<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. That I can tell you too. The Archbishop<br/>
-    Of Canterbury, accompanied with other<br/>
-    Learned and reverend fathers of his order,<br/>
-    Held a late court at Dunstable, six miles of<br/>
-    From Ampthill, where the Princess lay; to which<br/>
-    She was often cited by them, but appear'd not.<br/>
-    And, to be short, for not appearance and<br/>
-    The King's late scruple, by the main assent<br/>
-    Of all these learned men, she was divorc'd,<br/>
-    And the late marriage made of none effect;<br/>
-    Since which she was removed to Kimbolton,<br/>
-    Where she remains now sick.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. Alas, good lady!                       [Trumpets]<br/>
-    The trumpets sound. Stand close, the Queen is coming.<br/>
-[Hautboys]<br/>
-</p>
-<h5>THE ORDER OF THE CORONATION.</h5>
-<p>    1. A lively flourish of trumpets.<br/>
-. Then two JUDGES.<br/>
-. LORD CHANCELLOR, with purse and mace before him.<br/>
-. CHORISTERS singing.                                    [Music]<br/>
-. MAYOR OF LONDON, bearing the mace. Then GARTER, in<br/>
-       his coat of arms, and on his head he wore a gilt copper<br/>
-       crown.<br/>
-. MARQUIS DORSET, bearing a sceptre of gold, on his head a<br/>
-       demi-coronal of gold. With him, the EARL OF SURREY,<br/>
-       bearing the rod of silver with the dove, crowned with an<br/>
-       earl's coronet. Collars of Esses.<br/>
-. DUKE OF SUFFOLK, in his robe of estate, his coronet on<br/>
-       his head, bearing a long white wand, as High Steward.<br/>
-       With him, the DUKE OF NORFOLK, with the rod of<br/>
-       marshalship, a coronet on his head. Collars of Esses.<br/>
-. A canopy borne by four of the CINQUE-PORTS; under it<br/>
-       the QUEEN in her robe; in her hair richly adorned with<br/>
-       pearl, crowned. On each side her, the BISHOPS OF LONDON<br/>
-       and WINCHESTER.<br/>
-. The old DUCHESS OF NORFOLK, in a coronal of gold<br/>
-       wrought with flowers, bearing the QUEEN'S train.<br/>
-. Certain LADIES or COUNTESSES, with plain circlets of gold<br/>
-       without flowers.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>             Exeunt, first passing over the stage in order and state,<br/>
-                                and then a great flourish of trumpets<br/>
-</p>
-<p>  SECOND GENTLEMAN. A royal train, believe me. These know.<br/>
-    Who's that that bears the sceptre?<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. Marquis Dorset;<br/>
-    And that the Earl of Surrey, with the rod.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. A bold brave gentleman. That should be<br/>
-    The Duke of Suffolk?<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis the same-High Steward.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. And that my Lord of Norfolk?<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN.  [Looking on the QUEEN]  Heaven<br/>
-      bless thee!<br/>
-    Thou hast the sweetest face I ever look'd on.<br/>
-    Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel;<br/>
-    Our king has all the Indies in his arms,<br/>
-    And more and richer, when he strains that lady;<br/>
-    I cannot blame his conscience.<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. They that bear<br/>
-    The cloth of honour over her are four barons<br/>
-    Of the Cinque-ports.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. Those men are happy; and so are all<br/>
-      are near her.<br/>
-    I take it she that carries up the train<br/>
-    Is that old noble lady, Duchess of Norfolk.<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. It is; and all the rest are countesses.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. Their coronets say so. These are stars indeed,<br/>
-    And sometimes falling ones.<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. No more of that.<br/>
-                   Exit Procession, with a great flourish of trumpets<br/>
-</p>
-<p>               Enter a third GENTLEMAN</p>
-<p>    God save you, sir! Where have you been broiling?<br/>
-  THIRD GENTLEMAN. Among the crowds i' th' Abbey, where a finger<br/>
-    Could not be wedg'd in more; I am stifled<br/>
-    With the mere rankness of their joy.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. You saw<br/>
-    The ceremony?<br/>
-  THIRD GENTLEMAN. That I did.<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. How was it?<br/>
-  THIRD GENTLEMAN. Well worth the seeing.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. Good sir, speak it to us.<br/>
-  THIRD GENTLEMAN. As well as I am able. The rich stream<br/>
-    Of lords and ladies, having brought the Queen<br/>
-    To a prepar'd place in the choir, fell of<br/>
-    A distance from her, while her Grace sat down<br/>
-    To rest awhile, some half an hour or so,<br/>
-    In a rich chair of state, opposing freely<br/>
-    The beauty of her person to the people.<br/>
-    Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman<br/>
-    That ever lay by man; which when the people<br/>
-    Had the full view of, such a noise arose<br/>
-    As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest,<br/>
-    As loud, and to as many tunes; hats, cloaks-<br/>
-    Doublets, I think-flew up, and had their faces<br/>
-    Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy<br/>
-    I never saw before. Great-bellied women,<br/>
-    That had not half a week to go, like rams<br/>
-    In the old time of war, would shake the press,<br/>
-    And make 'em reel before 'em. No man living<br/>
-    Could say 'This is my wife' there, all were woven<br/>
-    So strangely in one piece.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. But what follow'd?<br/>
-  THIRD GENTLEMAN. At length her Grace rose, and with<br/>
-      modest paces<br/>
-    Came to the altar, where she kneel'd, and saintlike<br/>
-    Cast her fair eyes to heaven, and pray'd devoutly.<br/>
-    Then rose again, and bow'd her to the people;<br/>
-    When by the Archbishop of Canterbury<br/>
-    She had all the royal makings of a queen:<br/>
-    As holy oil, Edward Confessor's crown,<br/>
-    The rod, and bird of peace, and all such emblems<br/>
-    Laid nobly on her; which perform'd, the choir,<br/>
-    With all the choicest music of the kingdom,<br/>
-    Together sung 'Te Deum.' So she parted,<br/>
-    And with the same full state pac'd back again<br/>
-    To York Place, where the feast is held.<br/>
-  FIRST GENTLEMAN. Sir,<br/>
-    You must no more call it York Place: that's past:<br/>
-    For since the Cardinal fell that title's lost.<br/>
-    'Tis now the King's, and called Whitehall.<br/>
-  THIRD GENTLEMAN. I know it;<br/>
-    But 'tis so lately alter'd that the old name<br/>
-    Is fresh about me.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. What two reverend bishops<br/>
-    Were those that went on each side of the Queen?<br/>
-  THIRD GENTLEMAN. Stokesly and Gardiner: the one of Winchester,<br/>
-    Newly preferr'd from the King's secretary;<br/>
-    The other, London.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. He of Winchester<br/>
-    Is held no great good lover of the Archbishop's,<br/>
-    The virtuous Cranmer.<br/>
-  THIRD GENTLEMAN. All the land knows that;<br/>
-    However, yet there is no great breach. When it comes,<br/>
-    Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. Who may that be, I pray you?<br/>
-  THIRD GENTLEMAN. Thomas Cromwell,<br/>
-    A man in much esteem with th' King, and truly<br/>
-    A worthy friend. The King has made him Master<br/>
-    O' th' jewel House,<br/>
-    And one, already, of the Privy Council.<br/>
-  SECOND GENTLEMAN. He will deserve more.<br/>
-  THIRD GENTLEMAN. Yes, without all doubt.<br/>
-    Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, which<br/>
-    Is to th' court, and there ye shall be my guests:<br/>
-    Something I can command. As I walk thither,<br/>
-    I'll tell ye more.<br/>
-  BOTH. You may command us, sir.                               Exeunt<br/>
-</p>
-<h4>ACT IV. SCENE 2.</h4>
-<p>Kimbolton</p>
-<p>Enter KATHARINE, Dowager, sick; led between GRIFFITH, her Gentleman Usher,
-and PATIENCE, her woman</p>
-<p>  GRIFFITH. How does your Grace?<br/>
-  KATHARINE. O Griffith, sick to death!<br/>
-    My legs like loaden branches bow to th' earth,<br/>
-    Willing to leave their burden. Reach a chair.<br/>
-    So-now, methinks, I feel a little ease.<br/>
-    Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led'st me,<br/>
-    That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey,<br/>
-    Was dead?<br/>
-  GRIFFITH. Yes, madam; but I think your Grace,<br/>
-    Out of the pain you suffer'd, gave no ear to't.<br/>
-  KATHARINE. Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died.<br/>
-    If well, he stepp'd before me, happily,<br/>
-    For my example.<br/>
-  GRIFFITH. Well, the voice goes, madam;<br/>
-    For after the stout Earl Northumberland<br/>
-    Arrested him at York and brought him forward,<br/>
-    As a man sorely tainted, to his answer,<br/>
-    He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill<br/>
-    He could not sit his mule.<br/>
-  KATHARINE. Alas, poor man!<br/>
-  GRIFFITH. At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester,<br/>
-    Lodg'd in the abbey; where the reverend abbot,<br/>
-    With all his covent, honourably receiv'd him;<br/>
-    To whom he gave these words: 'O father Abbot,<br/>
-    An old man, broken with the storms of state,<br/>
-    Is come to lay his weary bones among ye;<br/>
-    Give him a little earth for charity!'<br/>
-    So went to bed; where eagerly his sickness<br/>
-    Pursu'd him still And three nights after this,<br/>
-    About the hour of eight-which he himself<br/>
-    Foretold should be his last-full of repentance,<br/>
-    Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows,<br/>
-    He gave his honours to the world again,<br/>
-    His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.<br/>
-  KATHARINE. So may he rest; his faults lie gently on him!<br/>
-    Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him,<br/>
-    And yet with charity. He was a man<br/>
-    Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking<br/>
-    Himself with princes; one that, by suggestion,<br/>
-    Tied all the kingdom. Simony was fair play;<br/>
-    His own opinion was his law. I' th' presence<br/>
-    He would say untruths, and be ever double<br/>
-    Both in his words and meaning. He was never,<br/>
-    But where he meant to ruin, pitiful.<br/>
-    His promises were, as he then was, mighty;<br/>
-    But his performance, as he is now, nothing.<br/>
-    Of his own body he was ill, and gave<br/>
-    The clergy ill example.<br/>
-  GRIFFITH. Noble madam,<br/>
-    Men's evil manners live in brass: their virtues<br/>
-    We write in water. May it please your Highness<br/>
-    To hear me speak his good now?<br/>
-  KATHARINE. Yes, good Griffith;<br/>
-    I were malicious else.<br/>
-  GRIFFITH. This Cardinal,<br/>
-    Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly<br/>
-    Was fashion'd to much honour from his cradle.<br/>
-    He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one;<br/>
-    Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading;<br/>
-    Lofty and sour to them that lov'd him not,<br/>
-    But to those men that sought him sweet as summer.<br/>
-    And though he were unsatisfied in getting-<br/>
-    Which was a sin-yet in bestowing, madam,<br/>
-    He was most princely: ever witness for him<br/>
-    Those twins of learning that he rais'd in you,<br/>
-    Ipswich and Oxford! One of which fell with him,<br/>
-    Unwilling to outlive the good that did it;<br/>
-    The other, though unfinish'd, yet so famous,<br/>
-    So excellent in art, and still so rising,<br/>
-    That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue.<br/>
-    His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him;<br/>
-    For then, and not till then, he felt himself,<br/>
-    And found the blessedness of being little.<br/>
-    And, to add greater honours to his age<br/>
-    Than man could give him, he died fearing God.<br/>
-  KATHARINE. After my death I wish no other herald,<br/>
-    No other speaker of my living actions,<br/>
-    To keep mine honour from corruption,<br/>
-    But such an honest chronicler as Griffith.<br/>
-    Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me,<br/>
-    With thy religious truth and modesty,<br/>
-    Now in his ashes honour. Peace be with him!<br/>
-    patience, be near me still, and set me lower:<br/>
-    I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith,<br/>
-    Cause the musicians play me that sad note<br/>
-    I nam'd my knell, whilst I sit meditating<br/>
-    On that celestial harmony I go to.<br/>
-                                              [Sad and solemn music]<br/>
-  GRIFFITH. She is asleep. Good wench, let's sit down quiet,<br/>
-    For fear we wake her. Softly, gentle Patience.<br/>
-</p>
-<h5>THE VISION.</h5>
-<p>      Enter, solemnly tripping one after
-another, six
-      PERSONAGES clad in white robes, wearing on their
-      heads garlands of bays, and golden vizards on their
-      faces; branches of bays or palm in their hands. They
-      first congee unto her, then dance; and, at certain
-      changes, the first two hold a spare garland over her
-      head, at which the other four make reverent curtsies.
-      Then the two that held the garland deliver the
-      same to the other next two, who observe the same
-      order in their changes, and holding the garland over
-      her head; which done, they deliver the same garland
-      to the last two, who likewise observe the same order;
-      at which, as it were by inspiration, she makes
-      in her sleep signs of rejoicing, and holdeth up her
-      hands to heaven. And so in their dancing vanish,
-      carrying the garland with them. The music continues</p>
-<p>  KATHARINE. Spirits of peace, where are ye? Are ye all gone?<br/>
-    And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye?<br/>
-  GRIFFITH. Madam, we are here.<br/>
-  KATHARINE. It is not you I call for.<br/>
-    Saw ye none enter since I slept?<br/>
-  GRIFFITH. None, madam.<br/>
-  KATHARINE. No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop<br/>
-    Invite me to a banquet; whose bright faces<br/>
-    Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun?<br/>
-    They promis'd me eternal happiness,<br/>
-    And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel<br/>
-    I am not worthy yet to wear. I shall, assuredly.<br/>
-  GRIFFITH. I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams<br/>
-    Possess your fancy.<br/>
-  KATHARINE. Bid the music leave,<br/>
-    They are harsh and heavy to me.                    [Music ceases]<br/>
-  PATIENCE. Do you note<br/>
-    How much her Grace is alter'd on the sudden?<br/>
-    How long her face is drawn! How pale she looks,<br/>
-    And of an earthly cold! Mark her eyes.<br/>
-  GRIFFITH. She is going, wench. Pray, pray.<br/>
-  PATIENCE. Heaven comfort her!<br/>
-</p>
-<p>             Enter a MESSENGER</p>
-<p>  MESSENGER. An't like your Grace-<br/>
-  KATHARINE. You are a saucy fellow.<br/>
-    Deserve we no more reverence?<br/>
-  GRIFFITH. You are to blame,<br/>
-    Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness,<br/>
-    To use so rude behaviour. Go to, kneel.<br/>
-  MESSENGER. I humbly do entreat your Highness' pardon;<br/>
-    My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying<br/>
-    A gentleman, sent from the King, to see you.<br/>
-  KATHARINE. Admit him entrance, Griffith; but this fellow<br/>
-    Let me ne'er see again.                            Exit MESSENGER<br/>
-</p>
-<p>              Enter LORD CAPUCIUS</p>
-<p>    If my sight fail not,<br/>
-    You should be Lord Ambassador from the Emperor,<br/>
-    My royal nephew, and your name Capucius.<br/>
-  CAPUCIUS. Madam, the same-your servant.<br/>
-  KATHARINE. O, my Lord,<br/>
-    The times and titles now are alter'd strangely<br/>
-    With me since first you knew me. But, I pray you,<br/>
-    What is your pleasure with me?<br/>
-  CAPUCIUS. Noble lady,<br/>
-    First, mine own service to your Grace; the next,<br/>
-    The King's request that I would visit you,<br/>
-    Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me<br/>
-    Sends you his princely commendations<br/>
-    And heartily entreats you take good comfort.<br/>
-  KATHARINE. O my good lord, that comfort comes too late,<br/>
-    'Tis like a pardon after execution:<br/>
-    That gentle physic, given in time, had cur'd me;<br/>
-    But now I am past all comforts here, but prayers.<br/>
-    How does his Highness?<br/>
-  CAPUCIUS. Madam, in good health.<br/>
-  KATHARINE. So may he ever do! and ever flourish<br/>
-    When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name<br/>
-    Banish'd the kingdom! Patience, is that letter<br/>
-    I caus'd you write yet sent away?<br/>
-  PATIENCE. No, madam.                       [Giving it to KATHARINE]<br/>
-  KATHARINE. Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver<br/>
-    This to my lord the King.<br/>
-  CAPUCIUS. Most willing, madam.<br/>
-  KATHARINE. In which I have commended to his goodness<br/>
-    The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter-<br/>
-    The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her!-<br/>
-    Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding-<br/>
-    She is young, and of a noble modest nature;<br/>
-    I hope she will deserve well-and a little<br/>
-    To love her for her mother's sake, that lov'd him,<br/>
-    Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition<br/>
-    Is that his noble Grace would have some pity<br/>
-    Upon my wretched women that so long<br/>
-    Have follow'd both my fortunes faithfully;<br/>
-    Of which there is not one, I dare avow-<br/>
-    And now I should not lie-but will deserve,<br/>
-    For virtue and true beauty of the soul,<br/>
-    For honesty and decent carriage,<br/>
-    A right good husband, let him be a noble;<br/>
-    And sure those men are happy that shall have 'em.<br/>
-    The last is for my men-they are the poorest,<br/>
-    But poverty could never draw 'em from me-<br/>
-    That they may have their wages duly paid 'em,<br/>
-    And something over to remember me by.<br/>
-    If heaven had pleas'd to have given me longer life<br/>
-    And able means, we had not parted thus.<br/>
-    These are the whole contents; and, good my lord,<br/>
-    By that you love the dearest in this world,<br/>
-    As you wish Christian peace to souls departed,<br/>
-    Stand these poor people's friend, and urge the King<br/>
-    To do me this last right.<br/>
-  CAPUCIUS. By heaven, I will,<br/>
-    Or let me lose the fashion of a man!<br/>
-  KATHARINE. I thank you, honest lord. Remember me<br/>
-    In all humility unto his Highness;<br/>
-    Say his long trouble now is passing<br/>
-    Out of this world. Tell him in death I bless'd him,<br/>
-    For so I will. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell,<br/>
-    My lord. Griffith, farewell. Nay, Patience,<br/>
-    You must not leave me yet. I must to bed;<br/>
-    Call in more women. When I am dead, good wench,<br/>
-    Let me be us'd with honour; strew me over<br/>
-    With maiden flowers, that all the world may know<br/>
-    I was a chaste wife to my grave. Embalm me,<br/>
-    Then lay me forth; although unqueen'd, yet like<br/>
-    A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me.<br/>
-    I can no more.                          Exeunt, leading KATHARINE<br/>
-</p>
-<h4>ACT V. SCENE 1.</h4>
-<p>London. A gallery in the palace</p>
-<p>Enter GARDINER, BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, a PAGE with a torch before him,
-met by SIR THOMAS LOVELL</p>
-<p>  GARDINER. It's one o'clock, boy, is't not?<br/>
-  BOY. It hath struck.<br/>
-  GARDINER. These should be hours for necessities,<br/>
-    Not for delights; times to repair our nature<br/>
-    With comforting repose, and not for us<br/>
-    To waste these times. Good hour of night, Sir Thomas!<br/>
-    Whither so late?<br/>
-  LOVELL. Came you from the King, my lord?<br/>
-  GARDINER. I did, Sir Thomas, and left him at primero<br/>
-    With the Duke of Suffolk.<br/>
-  LOVELL. I must to him too,<br/>
-    Before he go to bed. I'll take my leave.<br/>
-  GARDINER. Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell. What's the matter?<br/>
-    It seems you are in haste. An if there be<br/>
-    No great offence belongs to't, give your friend<br/>
-    Some touch of your late business. Affairs that walk-<br/>
-    As they say spirits do-at midnight, have<br/>
-    In them a wilder nature than the business<br/>
-    That seeks despatch by day.<br/>
-  LOVELL. My lord, I love you;<br/>
-    And durst commend a secret to your ear<br/>
-    Much weightier than this work. The Queen's in labour,<br/>
-    They say in great extremity, and fear'd<br/>
-    She'll with the labour end.<br/>
-  GARDINER. The fruit she goes with<br/>
-    I pray for heartily, that it may find<br/>
-    Good time, and live; but for the stock, Sir Thomas,<br/>
-    I wish it grubb'd up now.<br/>
-  LOVELL. Methinks I could<br/>
-    Cry thee amen; and yet my conscience says<br/>
-    She's a good creature, and, sweet lady, does<br/>
-    Deserve our better wishes.<br/>
-  GARDINER. But, sir, sir-<br/>
-    Hear me, Sir Thomas. Y'are a gentleman<br/>
-    Of mine own way; I know you wise, religious;<br/>
-    And, let me tell you, it will ne'er be well-<br/>
-    'Twill not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take't of me-<br/>
-    Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she,<br/>
-    Sleep in their graves.<br/>
-  LOVELL. Now, sir, you speak of two<br/>
-    The most remark'd i' th' kingdom. As for Cromwell,<br/>
-    Beside that of the Jewel House, is made Master<br/>
-    O' th' Rolls, and the King's secretary; further, sir,<br/>
-    Stands in the gap and trade of moe preferments,<br/>
-    With which the time will load him. Th' Archbishop<br/>
-    Is the King's hand and tongue, and who dare speak<br/>
-    One syllable against him?<br/>
-  GARDINER. Yes, yes, Sir Thomas,<br/>
-    There are that dare; and I myself have ventur'd<br/>
-    To speak my mind of him; and indeed this day,<br/>
-    Sir-I may tell it you-I think I have<br/>
-    Incens'd the lords o' th' Council, that he is-<br/>
-    For so I know he is, they know he is-<br/>
-    A most arch heretic, a pestilence<br/>
-    That does infect the land; with which they moved<br/>
-    Have broken with the King, who hath so far<br/>
-    Given ear to our complaint-of his great grace<br/>
-    And princely care, foreseeing those fell mischiefs<br/>
-    Our reasons laid before him-hath commanded<br/>
-    To-morrow morning to the Council board<br/>
-    He be convented. He's a rank weed, Sir Thomas,<br/>
-    And we must root him out. From your affairs<br/>
-    I hinder you too long-good night, Sir Thomas.<br/>
-  LOVELL. Many good nights, my lord; I rest your servant.<br/>
-                                             Exeunt GARDINER and PAGE<br/>
-</p>
-<p>         Enter the KING and the DUKE OF SUFFOLK</p>
-<p>  KING. Charles, I will play no more to-night;<br/>
-    My mind's not on't; you are too hard for me.<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. Sir, I did never win of you before.<br/>
-  KING. But little, Charles;<br/>
-    Nor shall not, when my fancy's on my play.<br/>
-    Now, Lovell, from the Queen what is the news?<br/>
-  LOVELL. I could not personally deliver to her<br/>
-    What you commanded me, but by her woman<br/>
-    I sent your message; who return'd her thanks<br/>
-    In the great'st humbleness, and desir'd your Highness<br/>
-    Most heartily to pray for her.<br/>
-  KING. What say'st thou, ha?<br/>
-    To pray for her? What, is she crying out?<br/>
-  LOVELL. So said her woman; and that her suff'rance made<br/>
-    Almost each pang a death.<br/>
-  KING. Alas, good lady!<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. God safely quit her of her burden, and<br/>
-    With gentle travail, to the gladding of<br/>
-    Your Highness with an heir!<br/>
-  KING. 'Tis midnight, Charles;<br/>
-    Prithee to bed; and in thy pray'rs remember<br/>
-    Th' estate of my poor queen. Leave me alone,<br/>
-    For I must think of that which company<br/>
-    Will not be friendly to.<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. I wish your Highness<br/>
-    A quiet night, and my good mistress will<br/>
-    Remember in my prayers.<br/>
-  KING. Charles, good night.                             Exit SUFFOLK<br/>
-</p>
-<p>         Enter SIR ANTHONY DENNY</p>
-<p>    Well, sir, what follows?<br/>
-  DENNY. Sir, I have brought my lord the Archbishop,<br/>
-    As you commanded me.<br/>
-  KING. Ha! Canterbury?<br/>
-  DENNY. Ay, my good lord.<br/>
-  KING. 'Tis true. Where is he, Denny?<br/>
-  DENNY. He attends your Highness' pleasure.<br/>
-  KING. Bring him to us.                                   Exit DENNY<br/>
-  LOVELL.  [Aside]  This is about that which the bishop spake.<br/>
-    I am happily come hither.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>         Re-enter DENNY, With CRANMER</p>
-<p>  KING. Avoid the gallery.                     [LOVELL seems to stay]<br/>
-    Ha! I have said. Be gone.<br/>
-    What!                                     Exeunt LOVELL and DENNY<br/>
-  CRANMER.  [Aside]  I am fearful-wherefore frowns he thus?<br/>
-    'Tis his aspect of terror. All's not well.<br/>
-  KING. How now, my lord? You do desire to know<br/>
-    Wherefore I sent for you.<br/>
-  CRANMER.  [Kneeling]  It is my duty<br/>
-    T'attend your Highness' pleasure.<br/>
-  KING. Pray you, arise,<br/>
-    My good and gracious Lord of Canterbury.<br/>
-    Come, you and I must walk a turn together;<br/>
-    I have news to tell you; come, come, me your hand.<br/>
-    Ah, my good lord, I grieve at what I speak,<br/>
-    And am right sorry to repeat what follows.<br/>
-    I have, and most unwillingly, of late<br/>
-    Heard many grievous-I do say, my lord,<br/>
-    Grievous-complaints of you; which, being consider'd,<br/>
-    Have mov'd us and our Council that you shall<br/>
-    This morning come before us; where I know<br/>
-    You cannot with such freedom purge yourself<br/>
-    But that, till further trial in those charges<br/>
-    Which will require your answer, you must take<br/>
-    Your patience to you and be well contented<br/>
-    To make your house our Tow'r. You a brother of us,<br/>
-    It fits we thus proceed, or else no witness<br/>
-    Would come against you.<br/>
-  CRANMER. I humbly thank your Highness<br/>
-    And am right glad to catch this good occasion<br/>
-    Most throughly to be winnowed where my chaff<br/>
-    And corn shall fly asunder; for I know<br/>
-    There's none stands under more calumnious tongues<br/>
-    Than I myself, poor man.<br/>
-  KING. Stand up, good Canterbury;<br/>
-    Thy truth and thy integrity is rooted<br/>
-    In us, thy friend. Give me thy hand, stand up;<br/>
-    Prithee let's walk. Now, by my holidame,<br/>
-    What manner of man are you? My lord, I look'd<br/>
-    You would have given me your petition that<br/>
-    I should have ta'en some pains to bring together<br/>
-    Yourself and your accusers, and to have heard you<br/>
-    Without indurance further.<br/>
-  CRANMER. Most dread liege,<br/>
-    The good I stand on is my truth and honesty;<br/>
-    If they shall fail, I with mine enemies<br/>
-    Will triumph o'er my person; which I weigh not,<br/>
-    Being of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing<br/>
-    What can be said against me.<br/>
-  KING. Know you not<br/>
-    How your state stands i' th' world, with the whole world?<br/>
-    Your enemies are many, and not small; their practices<br/>
-    Must bear the same proportion; and not ever<br/>
-    The justice and the truth o' th' question carries<br/>
-    The due o' th' verdict with it; at what ease<br/>
-    Might corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt<br/>
-    To swear against you? Such things have been done.<br/>
-    You are potently oppos'd, and with a malice<br/>
-    Of as great size. Ween you of better luck,<br/>
-    I mean in perjur'd witness, than your Master,<br/>
-    Whose minister you are, whiles here He liv'd<br/>
-    Upon this naughty earth? Go to, go to;<br/>
-    You take a precipice for no leap of danger,<br/>
-    And woo your own destruction.<br/>
-  CRANMER. God and your Majesty<br/>
-    Protect mine innocence, or I fall into<br/>
-    The trap is laid for me!<br/>
-  KING. Be of good cheer;<br/>
-    They shall no more prevail than we give way to.<br/>
-    Keep comfort to you, and this morning see<br/>
-    You do appear before them; if they shall chance,<br/>
-    In charging you with matters, to commit you,<br/>
-    The best persuasions to the contrary<br/>
-    Fail not to use, and with what vehemency<br/>
-    Th' occasion shall instruct you. If entreaties<br/>
-    Will render you no remedy, this ring<br/>
-    Deliver them, and your appeal to us<br/>
-    There make before them. Look, the good man weeps!<br/>
-    He's honest, on mine honour. God's blest Mother!<br/>
-    I swear he is true-hearted, and a soul<br/>
-    None better in my kingdom. Get you gone,<br/>
-    And do as I have bid you.<br/>
-                                                         Exit CRANMER<br/>
-    He has strangled his language in his tears.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>           Enter OLD LADY</p>
-<p>  GENTLEMAN.  [Within]  Come back; what mean you?<br/>
-  OLD LADY. I'll not come back; the tidings that I bring<br/>
-    Will make my boldness manners. Now, good angels<br/>
-    Fly o'er thy royal head, and shade thy person<br/>
-    Under their blessed wings!<br/>
-  KING. Now, by thy looks<br/>
-    I guess thy message. Is the Queen deliver'd?<br/>
-    Say ay, and of a boy.<br/>
-  OLD LADY. Ay, ay, my liege;<br/>
-    And of a lovely boy. The God of Heaven<br/>
-    Both now and ever bless her! 'Tis a girl,<br/>
-    Promises boys hereafter. Sir, your queen<br/>
-    Desires your visitation, and to be<br/>
-    Acquainted with this stranger; 'tis as like you<br/>
-    As cherry is to cherry.<br/>
-  KING. Lovell!<br/>
-</p>
-<p>           Enter LOVELL</p>
-<p>  LOVELL. Sir?<br/>
-  KING. Give her an hundred marks. I'll to the Queen.            Exit<br/>
-  OLD LADY. An hundred marks? By this light, I'll ha' more!<br/>
-    An ordinary groom is for such payment.<br/>
-    I will have more, or scold it out of him.<br/>
-    Said I for this the girl was like to him! I'll<br/>
-    Have more, or else unsay't; and now, while 'tis hot,<br/>
-    I'll put it to the issue.                                  Exeunt<br/>
-</p>
-<h4>ACT V. SCENE 2.</h4>
-<p>Lobby before the Council Chamber</p>
-<p>Enter CRANMER, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY</p>
-<p>  CRANMER. I hope I am not too late; and yet the gentleman<br/>
-    That was sent to me from the Council pray'd me<br/>
-    To make great haste. All fast? What means this? Ho!<br/>
-    Who waits there? Sure you know me?<br/>
-</p>
-<p>           Enter KEEPER</p>
-<p>  KEEPER. Yes, my lord;<br/>
-    But yet I cannot help you.<br/>
-  CRANMER. Why?<br/>
-  KEEPER. Your Grace must wait till you be call'd for.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>           Enter DOCTOR BUTTS</p>
-<p>  CRANMER. So.<br/>
-  BUTTS.  [Aside]  This is a piece of malice. I am glad<br/>
-    I came this way so happily; the King<br/>
-    Shall understand it presently.                               Exit<br/>
-  CRANMER.  [Aside]  'Tis Butts,<br/>
-    The King's physician; as he pass'd along,<br/>
-    How earnestly he cast his eyes upon me!<br/>
-    Pray heaven he sound not my disgrace! For certain,<br/>
-    This is of purpose laid by some that hate me-<br/>
-    God turn their hearts! I never sought their malice-<br/>
-    To quench mine honour; they would shame to make me<br/>
-    Wait else at door, a fellow councillor,<br/>
-    'Mong boys, grooms, and lackeys. But their pleasures<br/>
-    Must be fulfill'd, and I attend with patience.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>         Enter the KING and BUTTS at window above</p>
-<p>  BUTTS. I'll show your Grace the strangest sight-<br/>
-  KING. What's that, Butts?<br/>
-  BUTTS. I think your Highness saw this many a day.<br/>
-  KING. Body a me, where is it?<br/>
-  BUTTS. There my lord:<br/>
-    The high promotion of his Grace of Canterbury;<br/>
-    Who holds his state at door, 'mongst pursuivants,<br/>
-    Pages, and footboys.<br/>
-  KING. Ha, 'tis he indeed.<br/>
-    Is this the honour they do one another?<br/>
-    'Tis well there's one above 'em yet. I had thought<br/>
-    They had parted so much honesty among 'em-<br/>
-    At least good manners-as not thus to suffer<br/>
-    A man of his place, and so near our favour,<br/>
-    To dance attendance on their lordships' pleasures,<br/>
-    And at the door too, like a post with packets.<br/>
-    By holy Mary, Butts, there's knavery!<br/>
-    Let 'em alone, and draw the curtain close;<br/>
-    We shall hear more anon.                                   Exeunt<br/>
-</p>
-<h4>ACT V. SCENE 3.</h4>
-<p>The Council Chamber</p>
-<p>A Council table brought in, with chairs and stools, and placed
-under the state. Enter LORD CHANCELLOR, places himself at the upper end
-of the table on the left band, a seat being left void above him,
-as for Canterbury's seat. DUKE OF SUFFOLK, DUKE OF NORFOLK, SURREY,
-LORD CHAMBERLAIN, GARDINER, seat themselves in order on each side;
-CROMWELL at lower end, as secretary. KEEPER at the door</p>
-<p>  CHANCELLOR. Speak to the business, master secretary;<br/>
-    Why are we met in council?<br/>
-  CROMWELL. Please your honours,<br/>
-    The chief cause concerns his Grace of Canterbury.<br/>
-  GARDINER. Has he had knowledge of it?<br/>
-  CROMWELL. Yes.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Who waits there?<br/>
-  KEEPER. Without, my noble lords?<br/>
-  GARDINER. Yes.<br/>
-  KEEPER. My Lord Archbishop;<br/>
-    And has done half an hour, to know your pleasures.<br/>
-  CHANCELLOR. Let him come in.<br/>
-  KEEPER. Your Grace may enter now.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>      CRANMER approaches the Council table</p>
-<p>  CHANCELLOR. My good Lord Archbishop, I am very sorry<br/>
-    To sit here at this present, and behold<br/>
-    That chair stand empty; but we all are men,<br/>
-    In our own natures frail and capable<br/>
-    Of our flesh; few are angels; out of which frailty<br/>
-    And want of wisdom, you, that best should teach us,<br/>
-    Have misdemean'd yourself, and not a little,<br/>
-    Toward the King first, then his laws, in filling<br/>
-    The whole realm by your teaching and your chaplains-<br/>
-    For so we are inform'd-with new opinions,<br/>
-    Divers and dangerous; which are heresies,<br/>
-    And, not reform'd, may prove pernicious.<br/>
-  GARDINER. Which reformation must be sudden too,<br/>
-    My noble lords; for those that tame wild horses<br/>
-    Pace 'em not in their hands to make 'em gentle,<br/>
-    But stop their mouth with stubborn bits and spur 'em<br/>
-    Till they obey the manage. If we suffer,<br/>
-    Out of our easiness and childish pity<br/>
-    To one man's honour, this contagious sickness,<br/>
-    Farewell all physic; and what follows then?<br/>
-    Commotions, uproars, with a general taint<br/>
-    Of the whole state; as of late days our neighbours,<br/>
-    The upper Germany, can dearly witness,<br/>
-    Yet freshly pitied in our memories.<br/>
-  CRANMER. My good lords, hitherto in all the progress<br/>
-    Both of my life and office, I have labour'd,<br/>
-    And with no little study, that my teaching<br/>
-    And the strong course of my authority<br/>
-    Might go one way, and safely; and the end<br/>
-    Was ever to do well. Nor is there living-<br/>
-    I speak it with a single heart, my lords-<br/>
-    A man that more detests, more stirs against,<br/>
-    Both in his private conscience and his place,<br/>
-    Defacers of a public peace than I do.<br/>
-    Pray heaven the King may never find a heart<br/>
-    With less allegiance in it! Men that make<br/>
-    Envy and crooked malice nourishment<br/>
-    Dare bite the best. I do beseech your lordships<br/>
-    That, in this case of justice, my accusers,<br/>
-    Be what they will, may stand forth face to face<br/>
-    And freely urge against me.<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. Nay, my lord,<br/>
-    That cannot be; you are a councillor,<br/>
-    And by that virtue no man dare accuse you.<br/>
-  GARDINER. My lord, because we have business of more moment,<br/>
-    We will be short with you. 'Tis his Highness' pleasure<br/>
-    And our consent, for better trial of you,<br/>
-    From hence you be committed to the Tower;<br/>
-    Where, being but a private man again,<br/>
-    You shall know many dare accuse you boldly,<br/>
-    More than, I fear, you are provided for.<br/>
-  CRANMER. Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you;<br/>
-    You are always my good friend; if your will pass,<br/>
-    I shall both find your lordship judge and juror,<br/>
-    You are so merciful. I see your end-<br/>
-    'Tis my undoing. Love and meekness, lord,<br/>
-    Become a churchman better than ambition;<br/>
-    Win straying souls with modesty again,<br/>
-    Cast none away. That I shall clear myself,<br/>
-    Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience,<br/>
-    I make as little doubt as you do conscience<br/>
-    In doing daily wrongs. I could say more,<br/>
-    But reverence to your calling makes me modest.<br/>
-  GARDINER. My lord, my lord, you are a sectary;<br/>
-    That's the plain truth. Your painted gloss discovers,<br/>
-    To men that understand you, words and weakness.<br/>
-  CROMWELL. My Lord of Winchester, y'are a little,<br/>
-    By your good favour, too sharp; men so noble,<br/>
-    However faulty, yet should find respect<br/>
-    For what they have been; 'tis a cruelty<br/>
-    To load a falling man.<br/>
-  GARDINER. Good Master Secretary,<br/>
-    I cry your honour mercy; you may, worst<br/>
-    Of all this table, say so.<br/>
-  CROMWELL. Why, my lord?<br/>
-  GARDINER. Do not I know you for a favourer<br/>
-    Of this new sect? Ye are not sound.<br/>
-  CROMWELL. Not sound?<br/>
-  GARDINER. Not sound, I say.<br/>
-  CROMWELL. Would you were half so honest!<br/>
-    Men's prayers then would seek you, not their fears.<br/>
-  GARDINER. I shall remember this bold language.<br/>
-  CROMWELL. Do.<br/>
-    Remember your bold life too.<br/>
-  CHANCELLOR. This is too much;<br/>
-    Forbear, for shame, my lords.<br/>
-  GARDINER. I have done.<br/>
-  CROMWELL. And I.<br/>
-  CHANCELLOR. Then thus for you, my lord: it stands agreed,<br/>
-    I take it, by all voices, that forthwith<br/>
-    You be convey'd to th' Tower a prisoner;<br/>
-    There to remain till the King's further pleasure<br/>
-    Be known unto us. Are you all agreed, lords?<br/>
-  ALL. We are.<br/>
-  CRANMER. Is there no other way of mercy,<br/>
-    But I must needs to th' Tower, my lords?<br/>
-  GARDINER. What other<br/>
-    Would you expect? You are strangely troublesome.<br/>
-    Let some o' th' guard be ready there.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>           Enter the guard</p>
-<p>  CRANMER. For me?<br/>
-    Must I go like a traitor thither?<br/>
-  GARDINER. Receive him,<br/>
-    And see him safe i' th' Tower.<br/>
-  CRANMER. Stay, good my lords,<br/>
-    I have a little yet to say. Look there, my lords;<br/>
-    By virtue of that ring I take my cause<br/>
-    Out of the gripes of cruel men and give it<br/>
-    To a most noble judge, the King my master.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. This is the King's ring.<br/>
-  SURREY. 'Tis no counterfeit.<br/>
-  SUFFOLK. 'Tis the right ring, by heav'n. I told ye all,<br/>
-    When we first put this dangerous stone a-rolling,<br/>
-    'Twould fall upon ourselves.<br/>
-  NORFOLK. Do you think, my lords,<br/>
-    The King will suffer but the little finger<br/>
-    Of this man to be vex'd?<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. 'Tis now too certain;<br/>
-    How much more is his life in value with him!<br/>
-    Would I were fairly out on't!<br/>
-  CROMWELL. My mind gave me,<br/>
-    In seeking tales and informations<br/>
-    Against this man-whose honesty the devil<br/>
-    And his disciples only envy at-<br/>
-    Ye blew the fire that burns ye. Now have at ye!<br/>
-</p>
-<p>      Enter the KING frowning on them; he takes his seat</p>
-<p>  GARDINER. Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to heaven<br/>
-    In daily thanks, that gave us such a prince;<br/>
-    Not only good and wise but most religious;<br/>
-    One that in all obedience makes the church<br/>
-    The chief aim of his honour and, to strengthen<br/>
-    That holy duty, out of dear respect,<br/>
-    His royal self in judgment comes to hear<br/>
-    The cause betwixt her and this great offender.<br/>
-  KING. You were ever good at sudden commendations,<br/>
-    Bishop of Winchester. But know I come not<br/>
-    To hear such flattery now, and in my presence<br/>
-    They are too thin and bare to hide offences.<br/>
-    To me you cannot reach you play the spaniel,<br/>
-    And think with wagging of your tongue to win me;<br/>
-    But whatsoe'er thou tak'st me for, I'm sure<br/>
-    Thou hast a cruel nature and a bloody.<br/>
-    [To CRANMER]  Good man, sit down. Now let me see the proudest<br/>
-    He that dares most but wag his finger at thee.<br/>
-    By all that's holy, he had better starve<br/>
-    Than but once think this place becomes thee not.<br/>
-  SURREY. May it please your Grace-<br/>
-  KING. No, sir, it does not please me.<br/>
-    I had thought I had had men of some understanding<br/>
-    And wisdom of my Council; but I find none.<br/>
-    Was it discretion, lords, to let this man,<br/>
-    This good man-few of you deserve that title-<br/>
-    This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy<br/>
-    At chamber door? and one as great as you are?<br/>
-    Why, what a shame was this! Did my commission<br/>
-    Bid ye so far forget yourselves? I gave ye<br/>
-    Power as he was a councillor to try him,<br/>
-    Not as a groom. There's some of ye, I see,<br/>
-    More out of malice than integrity,<br/>
-    Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean;<br/>
-    Which ye shall never have while I live.<br/>
-  CHANCELLOR. Thus far,<br/>
-    My most dread sovereign, may it like your Grace<br/>
-    To let my tongue excuse all. What was purpos'd<br/>
-    concerning his imprisonment was rather-<br/>
-    If there be faith in men-meant for his trial<br/>
-    And fair purgation to the world, than malice,<br/>
-    I'm sure, in me.<br/>
-  KING. Well, well, my lords, respect him;<br/>
-    Take him, and use him well, he's worthy of it.<br/>
-    I will say thus much for him: if a prince<br/>
-    May be beholding to a subject,<br/>
-    Am for his love and service so to him.<br/>
-    Make me no more ado, but all embrace him;<br/>
-    Be friends, for shame, my lords! My Lord of Canterbury,<br/>
-    I have a suit which you must not deny me:<br/>
-    That is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism;<br/>
-    You must be godfather, and answer for her.<br/>
-  CRANMER. The greatest monarch now alive may glory<br/>
-    In such an honour; how may I deserve it,<br/>
-    That am a poor and humble subject to you?<br/>
-  KING. Come, come, my lord, you'd spare your spoons. You<br/>
-      shall have<br/>
-    Two noble partners with you: the old Duchess of Norfolk<br/>
-    And Lady Marquis Dorset. Will these please you?<br/>
-    Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you,<br/>
-    Embrace and love this man.<br/>
-  GARDINER. With a true heart<br/>
-    And brother-love I do it.<br/>
-  CRANMER. And let heaven<br/>
-    Witness how dear I hold this confirmation.<br/>
-  KING. Good man, those joyful tears show thy true heart.<br/>
-    The common voice, I see, is verified<br/>
-    Of thee, which says thus: 'Do my Lord of Canterbury<br/>
-    A shrewd turn and he's your friend for ever.'<br/>
-    Come, lords, we trifle time away; I long<br/>
-    To have this young one made a Christian.<br/>
-    As I have made ye one, lords, one remain;<br/>
-    So I grow stronger, you more honour gain.                  Exeunt<br/>
-</p>
-<h4>ACT V. SCENE 4.</h4>
-<p>The palace yard</p>
-<p>Noise and tumult within. Enter PORTER and his MAN</p>
-<p>  PORTER. You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals. Do you<br/>
-    take the court for Paris garden? Ye rude slaves, leave your<br/>
-    gaping.<br/>
-    [Within: Good master porter, I belong to th' larder.]<br/>
-  PORTER. Belong to th' gallows, and be hang'd, ye rogue! Is<br/>
-    this a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves,<br/>
-    and strong ones; these are but switches to 'em. I'll scratch<br/>
-    your heads. You must be seeing christenings? Do you look<br/>
-    for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals?<br/>
-  MAN. Pray, sir, be patient; 'tis as much impossible,<br/>
-    Unless we sweep 'em from the door with cannons,<br/>
-    To scatter 'em as 'tis to make 'em sleep<br/>
-    On May-day morning; which will never be.<br/>
-    We may as well push against Paul's as stir 'em.<br/>
-  PORTER. How got they in, and be hang'd?<br/>
-  MAN. Alas, I know not: how gets the tide in?<br/>
-    As much as one sound cudgel of four foot-<br/>
-    You see the poor remainder-could distribute,<br/>
-    I made no spare, sir.<br/>
-  PORTER. You did nothing, sir.<br/>
-  MAN. I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,<br/>
-    To mow 'em down before me; but if I spar'd any<br/>
-    That had a head to hit, either young or old,<br/>
-    He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker,<br/>
-    Let me ne'er hope to see a chine again;<br/>
-    And that I would not for a cow, God save her!<br/>
-    [ Within: Do you hear, master porter?]<br/>
-  PORTER. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy.<br/>
-    Keep the door close, sirrah.<br/>
-  MAN. What would you have me do?<br/>
-  PORTER. What should you do, but knock 'em down by th'<br/>
-    dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? Or have we some<br/>
-    strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the<br/>
-    women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication<br/>
-    is at door! On my Christian conscience, this one christening<br/>
-    will beget a thousand: here will be father, godfather,<br/>
-    and all together.<br/>
-  MAN. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a fellow<br/>
-    somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his<br/>
-    face, for, o' my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now<br/>
-    reign in's nose; all that stand about him are under the line,<br/>
-    they need no other penance. That fire-drake did I hit three<br/>
-    times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged<br/>
-    against me; he stands there like a mortar-piece, to blow us.<br/>
-    There was a haberdasher's wife of small wit near him, that<br/>
-    rail'd upon me till her pink'd porringer fell off her head,<br/>
-    for kindling such a combustion in the state. I miss'd the<br/>
-    meteor once, and hit that woman, who cried out 'Clubs!'<br/>
-    when I might see from far some forty truncheoners draw<br/>
-    to her succour, which were the hope o' th' Strand, where<br/>
-    she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place.<br/>
-    At length they came to th' broomstaff to me; I defied 'em<br/>
-    still; when suddenly a file of boys behind 'em, loose shot,<br/>
-    deliver'd such a show'r of pebbles that I was fain to draw<br/>
-    mine honour in and let 'em win the work: the devil was<br/>
-    amongst 'em, I think surely.<br/>
-  PORTER. These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse<br/>
-    and fight for bitten apples; that no audience but the tribulation<br/>
-    of Tower-hill or the limbs of Limehouse, their dear<br/>
-    brothers, are able to endure. I have some of 'em in Limbo<br/>
-    Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days;<br/>
-    besides the running banquet of two beadles that is to come.<br/>
-</p>
-<p>          Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN</p>
-<p>  CHAMBERLAIN. Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here!<br/>
-    They grow still too; from all parts they are coming,<br/>
-    As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters,<br/>
-    These lazy knaves? Y'have made a fine hand, fellows.<br/>
-    There's a trim rabble let in: are all these<br/>
-    Your faithful friends o' th' suburbs? We shall have<br/>
-    Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies,<br/>
-    When they pass back from the christening.<br/>
-  PORTER. An't please your honour,<br/>
-    We are but men; and what so many may do,<br/>
-    Not being torn a pieces, we have done.<br/>
-    An army cannot rule 'em.<br/>
-  CHAMBERLAIN. As I live,<br/>
-    If the King blame me for't, I'll lay ye an<br/>
-    By th' heels, and suddenly; and on your heads<br/>
-    Clap round fines for neglect. Y'are lazy knaves;<br/>
-    And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when<br/>
-    Ye should do service. Hark! the trumpets sound;<br/>
-    Th' are come already from the christening.<br/>
-    Go break among the press and find a way out<br/>
-    To let the troops pass fairly, or I'll find<br/>
-    A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months.<br/>
-  PORTER. Make way there for the Princess.<br/>
-  MAN. You great fellow,<br/>
-    Stand close up, or I'll make your head ache.<br/>
-  PORTER. You i' th' camlet, get up o' th' rail;<br/>
-    I'll peck you o'er the pales else.                         Exeunt<br/>
-</p>
-<h4>ACT V. SCENE 5.</h4>
-<p>The palace</p>
-<p>Enter TRUMPETS, sounding; then two ALDERMEN, LORD MAYOR, GARTER, CRANMER,
-DUKE OF NORFOLK, with his marshal's staff, DUKE OF SUFFOLK,
-two Noblemen bearing great standing-bowls for the christening gifts;
-then four Noblemen bearing a canopy, under which the DUCHESS OF NORFOLK,
-godmother, bearing the CHILD richly habited in a mantle, etc.,
-train borne by a LADY; then follows the MARCHIONESS DORSET,
-the other godmother, and LADIES. The troop pass once about the stage,
-and GARTER speaks</p>
-<p>  GARTER. Heaven, from thy endless goodness,
-send prosperous
-    life, long and ever-happy, to the high and mighty
-    Princess of England, Elizabeth!</p>
-<p>           Flourish. Enter KING and guard</p>
-<p>  CRANMER.  [Kneeling]  And to your royal Grace and the<br/>
-      good Queen!<br/>
-    My noble partners and myself thus pray:<br/>
-    All comfort, joy, in this most gracious lady,<br/>
-    Heaven ever laid up to make parents happy,<br/>
-    May hourly fall upon ye!<br/>
-  KING. Thank you, good Lord Archbishop.<br/>
-    What is her name?<br/>
-  CRANMER. Elizabeth.<br/>
-  KING. Stand up, lord.                   [The KING kisses the child]<br/>
-    With this kiss take my blessing: God protect thee!<br/>
-    Into whose hand I give thy life.<br/>
-  CRANMER. Amen.<br/>
-  KING. My noble gossips, y'have been too prodigal;<br/>
-    I thank ye heartily. So shall this lady,<br/>
-    When she has so much English.<br/>
-  CRANMER. Let me speak, sir,<br/>
-    For heaven now bids me; and the words I utter<br/>
-    Let none think flattery, for they'll find 'em truth.<br/>
-    This royal infant-heaven still move about her!-<br/>
-    Though in her cradle, yet now promises<br/>
-    Upon this land a thousand blessings,<br/>
-    Which time shall bring to ripeness. She shall be-<br/>
-    But few now living can behold that goodness-<br/>
-    A pattern to all princes living with her,<br/>
-    And all that shall succeed. Saba was never<br/>
-    More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue<br/>
-    Than this pure soul shall be. All princely graces<br/>
-    That mould up such a mighty piece as this is,<br/>
-    With all the virtues that attend the good,<br/>
-    Shall still be doubled on her. Truth shall nurse her,<br/>
-    Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her;<br/>
-    She shall be lov'd and fear'd. Her own shall bless her:<br/>
-    Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn,<br/>
-    And hang their heads with sorrow. Good grows with her;<br/>
-    In her days every man shall eat in safety<br/>
-    Under his own vine what he plants, and sing<br/>
-    The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours.<br/>
-    God shall be truly known; and those about her<br/>
-    From her shall read the perfect ways of honour,<br/>
-    And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.<br/>
-    Nor shall this peace sleep with her; but as when<br/>
-    The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix<br/>
-    Her ashes new create another heir<br/>
-    As great in admiration as herself,<br/>
-    So shall she leave her blessedness to one-<br/>
-    When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness-<br/>
-    Who from the sacred ashes of her honour<br/>
-    Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was,<br/>
-    And so stand fix'd. Peace, plenty, love, truth, terror,<br/>
-    That were the servants to this chosen infant,<br/>
-    Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him;<br/>
-    Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine,<br/>
-    His honour and the greatness of his name<br/>
-    Shall be, and make new nations; he shall flourish,<br/>
-    And like a mountain cedar reach his branches<br/>
-    To all the plains about him; our children's children<br/>
-    Shall see this and bless heaven.<br/>
-  KING. Thou speakest wonders.<br/>
-  CRANMER. She shall be, to the happiness of England,<br/>
-    An aged princess; many days shall see her,<br/>
-    And yet no day without a deed to crown it.<br/>
-    Would I had known no more! But she must die-<br/>
-    She must, the saints must have her-yet a virgin;<br/>
-    A most unspotted lily shall she pass<br/>
-    To th' ground, and all the world shall mourn her.<br/>
-  KING. O Lord Archbishop,<br/>
-    Thou hast made me now a man; never before<br/>
-    This happy child did I get anything.<br/>
-    This oracle of comfort has so pleas'd me<br/>
-    That when I am in heaven I shall desire<br/>
-    To see what this child does, and praise my Maker.<br/>
-    I thank ye all. To you, my good Lord Mayor,<br/>
-    And you, good brethren, I am much beholding;<br/>
-    I have receiv'd much honour by your presence,<br/>
-    And ye shall find me thankful. Lead the way, lords;<br/>
-    Ye must all see the Queen, and she must thank ye,<br/>
-    She will be sick else. This day, no man think<br/>
-    Has business at his house; for all shall stay.<br/>
-    This little one shall make it holiday.                     Exeunt<br/>
-</p>
-<h4>KING_HENRY_VIII|EPILOGUE
-              THE EPILOGUE.</h4>
-<p>    'Tis ten to one this play can never please<br/>
-    All that are here. Some come to take their ease<br/>
-    And sleep an act or two; but those, we fear,<br/>
-    W'have frighted with our trumpets; so, 'tis clear,<br/>
-    They'll say 'tis nought; others to hear the city<br/>
-    Abus'd extremely, and to cry 'That's witty!'<br/>
-    Which we have not done neither; that, I fear,<br/>
-    All the expected good w'are like to hear<br/>
-    For this play at this time is only in<br/>
-    The merciful construction of good women;<br/>
-    For such a one we show'd 'em. If they smile<br/>
-    And say 'twill do, I know within a while<br/>
-    All the best men are ours; for 'tis ill hap<br/>
-    If they hold when their ladies bid 'em clap.<br/>
-</p>
-{{close-shakespeare}}</text>

Texts:Shakespeare/cw162315 and Texts:Montaigne/Essays/0: Difference between pages

Latest revision as of 10:42, 6 January 2025

ESSAYS OF MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE

Preface

The Life of Montaigne

I.——To Monsieur de Montaigne

II.——To Monseigneur, Monseigneur de Montaigne.

III.——To Monsieur, Monsieur de Lansac,

IV.——To Monsieur, Monsieur de Mesmes, Lord of Roissy and Malassize, Privy

V.——To Monsieur, Monsieur de L’Hospital, Chancellor of France

VI.——To Monsieur, Monsieur de Folx, Privy Councillor, and Ambassador of His Majesty to the Signory of Venice.

—[ Printed before the ‘Vers Francois’ of Etienne de la Boetie, 8vo, Paris, 1572.]

VII.——To Mademoiselle de Montaigne, my Wife.

VIII.——To Monsieur Dupuy,

IX.——To the Jurats of Bordeaux.

X.——To the same.

—[The original is among the archives of Toulouse.]

XI.——To the same.

XII.

XIII.——To Mademoiselle PAULMIER.

XIV.——To the KING, HENRY IV.

XV.——To the same.

XVI.——To the Governor of Guienne.

Navigation menu

Search