Henry VIII

Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues we write in water.

We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels.

My drops of tears I'll turn to sparks of fire.

Nor shall this peace sleep with her; but as when The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, Her ashes new-create another heir As great in admiration as herself.

Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot That it do singe yourself.

Verily, I swear, 'tis better to be lowly born, and range with humble livers in content, than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief, and wear a golden sorrow.

I charge thee, fling away ambition. By that sin fell the angels.

I do believe, induced by potent circumstances That thou art mine enemy.

And 'tis a kind of good deed to say well: And yet words are no deeds.

So farewell to the little good you bear me Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!

Tis ten to one this play can never please All that are here. Some come to take their ease And sleep an act or two; but those, we fear, W' have frighted with our trumpets.

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 ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This 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 forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you. I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favors! 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.

Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, He would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies.

Y' are welcome, my fair guests. That noble lady, Or gentleman that is not freely merry, Is not my friend. This, to confirm my welcome, And to you all, good health. [Drinks] Lord Sands. Your grace is noble. Let me have such a bowl may hold my thanks, And save me so much talking. Cardinal Wolsey. My Lord Sands, I am beholding to you; cheer your neighbours. Ladies, you are not merry. Gentlemen, Whose fault is this? Lord Sands. The red wine first must rise In their fair cheeks, my lord, then we shall have 'em Talk us to silence. Anne Bullen. You are a merry gamester, My Lord Sands. Lord Sands. Yes, if I make my play. Here's to your ladyship: and pledge it, madam, For 'tis to such a thing,— Anne Bullen. You cannot show me. Lord Sands. I told your grace they would talk anon. [Drum and trumpet; chambers discharg'd] Cardinal Wolsey. What's that? Lord Chamberlain. Look out there, some of ye. [Exit Servant] Cardinal Wolsey. What warlike voice, And to what end is this? Nay, ladies, fear not; By all the laws of war y' are privileg’d.

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition! By that sin fell the angels;

How soon this mightiness meets misery; And if you can be merry then, I'll say A man may weep upon his wedding-day.