When he comes back; you demi-puppets that

By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,

Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime

Is to make midnight mushrumps, that rejoice

To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid –

Weak masters though ye be – I have bedimmed

The noontide sun, called forth the mutinous winds,

And ’twixt the green sea and the azured vault

Set roaring war; to the dread rattling thunder

Have I given fire, and rifted Jove’s stout oak

With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory

Have I made shake, and by the spurs plucked up

The pine and cedar; graves at my command

Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let ’em forth

By my so potent art. But this rough magic

I here abjure; and, when I have required

Some heavenly music – which even now I do –

To work mine end upon their senses that

This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff,

Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,

And deeper than did ever plummet sound

I’ll drown my book.

Henry VIII

[III, ii, 350–72] His schemes for self-advancement now standing all uncovered, Cardinal Wolsey at last sees the true fragility of all he has achieved. With stoic dignity, he says his goodbye to greatness:

So farewell – to the little good you bear me.

Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: today he puts forth

The tender leaves of hopes, 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 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 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.

The Two Noble Kinsmen

[II, ii, 1–23] Arcite, banished from the kingdom, can regret only that he has been exiled from the presence of Emilia, while his cousin Palamon is free from his prison window to enjoy the ecstatic vision of her lovely face:

Banished the kingdom? ’Tis a benefit,

A mercy I must thank ’em for; but banished

The free enjoying of that face I die for,

O, ’twas a studied punishment, a death

Beyond imagination; such a vengeance

That, were I old and wicked, all my sins

Could never pluck upon me. Palamon,