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Cardinal WOLSEY's Lamentation of his Fall.
SHAKESPEAR

F

AREWELL, a long Farewell to all my Great

nefs!

This is the State of Man; to-day he puts forth
The tender Leaves of Hope; to-morrow bloffoms,
And bears his blufhing Honours thick upon him;
The third Day comes a Frost, a killing Frost,
And when he thinks, good eafy Man, full furely
His Greatness is a ripening, nips his Root;
And then 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 you;
I feel my Heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor Man, that hangs on Princes Favours!
There is, betwixt that Smile which we aspire to,
That fweet Regard of Princes, and our Ruin,
More Pangs and Fears than War and Women know;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

Cromwell, I did not think to fhed a Tear
In all my Miseries; but thou haft forc'd me,

Out of thy honeft Truth, to play the Woman-
Let's dry our Eyes: And thus far hear me, Cromwell;
Mark but my Fall, and that which ruin'd me,
And when I am forgotten, as I fhall be,

And fleep in dull cold Marble, where no Mention

Of

Of me maft more be heard: Say then, I taught thee
Say, Wolfey, that once rode the Waves of Glory,
And founded all the Depths and Shoals of Honour,
Found thee a Way, out of this Wreck, to rise in ;
A fure and fafe one, tho' thy Mafter miss'd it.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away Ambition;
By that Sin fell the Angels; how can Man then
(The Image of his Maker) hope to win by't?
Love thyfelf laft; cherish thofe Hearts that wait thee;
Corruption wins not more than Honesty.
Still in thy right Hand carry gentle Peace,

To filence envious Tongues. Be juft, and fear not.
Let all the Ends thou aim'ft at, be thy Country's,
Thy God's, and Truth's: Then if thou fall'it. O
Cromwell,

Thou fall'ft a bleffed Martyr. Serve the King; And, prithee, lead me in

There take an Inventory of all I have ;

To the laft Penny, 'tis the King's. My Robe,
And my Integrity to Heaven, is all

I now dare call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but ferv'd my GoD with half the Zeal
[ ferv'd my King, he would not in mine Age
Have left me naked to mine Enemies.

Prefervation by Land and by Sea.

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A Divine OD E.

SPECTATOR.

WOW are thy Servants bleft, O Lord!
How fure is their Defence !

Eternal Wisdom is their Guide,
Their Help Omnipotence.

G

2. In

2. In foreign Realms, and Lands remote,
Supported by Thy Care,

Through burning Climes I pafs'd unhurt,
And breath'd in tainted Air.

3. Thy Mercy fweeten'd ev'ry Soil,
Made ev'ry Region please ;
The hoary Alpine Hills is warm'd,
And smooth'd the Tyrrhene Seas.

4. Think, O my Soul, devoutly think,
How with affrighted Eyes

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5. Confufion dwelt in ev'ry Face,

And Fear in ev'ry Heart;

When Waves on Waves, and Gulphs in Gulph O'ercame the Pilot's Art.

6. Yet then, from all my Griefs, O Lord,
Thy Mercy fet me free,
Whilft in the Confidence of Pray'r
My Soul took Hold on Thee;

7. For tho' in dreadful Whirls we hung
High on the broken Wave,

I knew Thou wert not flow to Hear,
Nor Impotent to Save.

8. The Storm was laid, the Winds retir'd,
Obedient to thy Will;

The Sea, that roar'd at thy Command,
At thy Command was still.

9.

9. In Midst of Dangers, Fears, and Death,
Thy Goodness I'll adore,

And praise thee for thy Mercies paft;
And humbly hope for more.

10. My Life, if thou preferv'ft my Life,
Thy Sacrifice fhall be ;

And Death, if Death must be my Doom,
Shall join my Soul to Thee.

RECOVERY from SICKNESS.

A Divine ODE.

SPECTATOR,

Werwhelm'd with Guilt and Fear,

HEN rifing from the Bed of Death,

I fee my Maker, Face to Face,

O how fhall I appear!

2. If yet, while Pardon may be found, And Mercy may be fought,

3.

4.

My Heart with inward Horror fhrinks,
And trembles at the Thought;

When thou, O Lord, shalt stand discios'd
In Majefty fevere,

And fit in Judgment on my Soul,

O how fhall I appear!

But Thou haft told the troubled Mind,

Who does her Sins lament,

The timely Tribute of her Tears

Shall endless Woe prevent.

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5. Then

5. Then fee the Sorrows of my Heart.
Ere yet it be too late ;

And hear my Saviour's dying Groans
To give thofe Sorrows Weight.

6. For never shall my Soul despair Her Pardon to procure,

Who knows thine only Son has dy'd

To make her Pardon fure.

An EPITAPH.

H

SPECTATOR.

ERE Innocence and Beauty lies, whose Breath
Was fnatch'd by early, not untimely Death,

Hence did the go just as she did begin

Sorrow to know, before fhe knew to fin.
Death, that does Sin and Sorrow thus prevent,
Is the next Bleffing to a Life well-spent.

On Mrs. MASON. In Bristol Cathedral.

By the Rev. Mr. W. MASON.

TAKE, holy Earth,! all that my Soul holds

dear!

Take that best Gift which Heav'n fo lately gave;
To Bristol's Fount I bore with trembling Care
Her faded Form: She bow'd to tafte the Wave,
And died Does Youth, does Beauty read the Line?
Does fympathetic Fear their Breasts alarm?
Speak, dead MARIA! breathe a Strain divine;
Ev'n from the Grave thou fhalt have Power to charm.
Bid them be chafte, be innocent, like thee;

MI

Bid

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