Kent.

Kind and dear princess!

Cor. Had you not been their father, these white flakes
Had challenged pity of them. Was this a face
To be exposed against the warring winds?
To stand against the deep dread-bolted-thunder?
In the most terrible and nimble stroke

Of quick cross lightning? to watch (poor perdu !)
With this thin helm? Mine enemy's dog,

Though he had bit me, should have stood that night
Against my fire: And wast thou fain, poor father,
To hovel thee with swine, and rogues forlorn,

In short and musty straw? Alack, alack! 'Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once Had not concluded all.

Scene between Lear and Cordelia.

Cor. How does my royal lord?

How fares your

majesty?

Lear. You do me wrong to take me out of the grave:
Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound

Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead,

Cor.

Sir, do you know me?

Lear. You are a spirit, I know: when did you die?

Cor. Still, still, far wide!

Phys. He's scarce awake, let him alone awhile.

Lear. Where have I been? where am I? Fair day

light?

I am mightily abused. I should even die with pity
To see another thus. I know not what to say.
I will not swear these are my hands: let's see;
I feel this pin prick. 'Would I were assured
Of my condition.

Cor. O, look upon me, sir,

And hold your hands in benediction o'er me:
No, sir, you must not kneel.

Lear. Pray, do not mock me:
I am a very foolish fond old man,

Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less;
And, to deal plainly,

I fear I am not in my perfect mind.

Methinks I should know you, and know this man;
Yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant
What place this is; and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garments; nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me:
For, as I am a man, I think this lady

Lear. Be your tears wet? yes, 'faith. I pray, weep

If

not:

you have poison for me, I will drink it, I know you do not love me; for your sisters Have, as I do remember, done me wrong:

Phys. Be comforted, good madam: the great rage
You see is cured in him: and yet it is danger
To make him even o'er the time he has lost.
Desire him to go in; trouble him no more
Till further settling.

Cor.

Lear.

Wil't please your highness walk?

You must bear with me:

Pray now forget and forgive: I am old and foolish.

CARDINAL WOLSEY'S FAREWELL TO HIS

GREATNESS.

FROM THE PLAY OF HENRY THE EIGHTH.'

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick
upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely

His greatness is a ripening, nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me, and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new open'd. O how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

CORDELIA'S GRIEF.

FROM THE PLAY OF KING LEAR.'

The following extract, which may be found in the Fourth Act of this Tragedy, furnishes us with an exquisite description of Cordelia's reception of the letters which narrate her father's affliction. The speaker, one of Cordelia's attendants, thus proceeds:

She took them, read them in my presence; And now and then an ample tear trill'd down Her delicate cheek: it seem'd she was a queen

Over her delicate passion; who, most rebel-like,
Sought to be king o'er her.

Kent. 0, then it moved her?

Gent. Not to a rage; patience and sorrow strove
Who should express her goodliest. You have seen
Sunshine and rain at once; her smiles and tears
Were like a better day. Those happy smiles
That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know
What guests were in her eyes, which parted thence,
As pearls from diamonds dropp'd. In brief, sorrow
Would be a rarity most belov'd, if all

Could so become it.

Kent. Made she no verbal question?

Gent. Faith, once or twice she heaved the name of 'father'

Pantingly forth, as if it pressed her heart;
Cried, 'Sisters! sisters! shame of ladies! sisters!
Kent! father! sisters! What? i the storm! i the night?
Let pity not be believed!-There she shook

The holy water from her heavenly eyes,

And clamour moisten'd: then away she started
To deal with grief alone.

CARDINAL WOLSEY'S DEATH.

At last, with easy roads he came to Leicester,
Lodged in the abbey; where the reverend abbot,

R