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 the 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 our ruin,
More pangs and fears than war and women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again!--
There is in this passage, as well as in the well-known dialogue with
Cromwell which follows, something which stretches beyond
commonplace; nor is the account which Griffiths gives of Wolsey's
death less Shakespearian; and the candour with which Queen Katherine
listens to the praise of 'him whom of all men while living she hated
most' adds the last graceful finishing to her character.
Among other images of great individual beauty might be mentioned the
description of the effect of Ann Boleyn's presenting herself to the
crowd at her coronation.
--While her grace sat down
To rest awhile, some half an hour or so,
In a rich chair of state, opposing freely
The beauty of her person to the people.
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