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O SLEEP, O gentle Sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, Sleep, ly’st thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber; Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lulld with sounds of sweetest melody? O thou dull god, why ly’st thou with the vile, In loathsome beds; and leav'st the kingly couch, A watch-case, or a common larum-bell? Wilt thou, upon the high and giddy mast, Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge ; And in the visitation of the winds,

IDEM GRÆCE REDDITUM.

REX HENRICUS SOMNUM ALLOQUITUR.

Ω ΦΙΛΟΝ "Υπνου θέλγητρον, δς βροτών δέμας
μαλακώς ατάλλεις, πως ποτ' εκφοβών σέμής
ευνης απήλασ' ; ου γάρ ηδέως έτι
βλέφαρα βαρύνεις, ουδ', αναψύχων πόνου,
τέγγεις φρένας μοι νηδύμω λήθη κακών.

5 τί σ', εν στέγαισι πολυκάπνοισι κείμενον, νυχία, βοώντες οξύ, κοιμίζουσεπί κώνωπες, εν δε στιβάσιν άστρωτους πεσών φιλείς καθεύδειν μάλλον, ή 'ν θυώδεσι θαλάμους τυράννων, πολυτελών σκηνών ύπο, 10 θελγομένος ύμνων όμμαθ' ήδίστε μέλει ; φεύ! σκαιόν λέγω σε θεόν, δς αυχμωδούς έχει στρωμνής πενήτων, τον δε βασιλικών λέχος έχοντάυπνον εκλέλοιπας, ως όταν κώδωνεν άστει πάννυχος τηρή φύλαξ:

15 τί δ' ; ουκ εφ' υψηλή τε και δυσεββάτω ιστώ, πέδησας βλέφαρα παιδί ναυβάτη, ώς τ' εν λίκνω, κνώσσοντεδίνησας, βρέφος, αυτή κλύδωνος αλμυρού τρικυμία ; και ταύθ', ότάνεμος, αγρία μιχθείς άλι, 20

V. 18.

εδίνησας«« "Ως φαμένα, δίνασε σάκος μέγα τους δ' έλαβύπνος.

Theocr. Idyll. 24.

Β 2

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deafʼning clamours in the slippery clouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes ?
Canst thou, O partial Sleep! give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,
And, in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king ?

[1818.

HENRY VIII. ACT 3. Sc. 2.

WOLSEY.

CROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes : and thus far hear me, Cromwell!
And—when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of-say, I taught thee-
Say, Wolsey—that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour-

κυρτών λαβών που κυμάτων πελωρίας
επηρε κορυφας, εν δ' υγραϊσιν αιθέρος
νεφέλαισιν έστήριξε, φρικώδες βρέμων,
ώστ' αυτόν Αίδην εξεγείρεσθαι κτύπω;
ούκουν πέφυκας άδικος, ος σα δώρ', "Υπνε,
τοίαδ' εν ώρα, διαβρόχο ναύτη νέμεις,
άνακτι δ', όσπερ ξύμμαχον την νύκτέχει,
σιγήν τε, χώ, τι κώμ' άγειν κατ' όμμάτων
φιλεί μάλιστα, ταυτά δωρεΐσθαι φθονείς;

25

5

1818.)

VOLSEUS CROMUELLO. ΚΡΟΜΥΕΛΛ', εγώ μεν ουκ έφην απόμμάτων δάκρυα βαλεϊν ποτ', ουδ' εν εσχάτη κακού το σον δ' αληθές μ', οί τε γενναίοι λόγοι, νίκησαν, ώστε προς γυναικείος τρέπειν. νύν ούν τα δάκρυεξομόρξωμεν· συ δε, Κρομύελλε φίλτατ', ές τόσονδ' άκουέ μου όταν δε λήθης, ώστε τεύξομαι, τύχω, κρυφθώ δ' έν υγρούς ήδη αναισθήτοις λίθοις, ίν' ού λόγος τις, ουδ' εμού μνήμη ποτέ έσται τoλοιπόν· δή τότ' έν φίλοις λόγους τoίoυσδε λέξεις: Ταύτ' εμοί παρήνεσε Βολσείος, αυτός πολυπλάνου τιμής ποτέ οδούς επελθών, τό, τε κλέους δυσχειμερον κύμ' έκπεράσας, κάξερευνήσας μυχούς:

10

v. 28. θελγομένων άξει κώμα κατα βλεφάρων.

Plato, apud Brunck. Anthol. tom. i. p. 171. v. 8. υγραν χέρα pro frigida. Εur. Phen. 1453.

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, Aling away ambition !
By that sin fell the angels. How can man, then,
(Though th' image of his Maker) hope to win by 't?
Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country's,
Thy God's, and truth's: then if thou fallst, O Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. Serve the king ;
And—Pr’ythee, lead me in:
There take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,
And my integrity to heaven, is all
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal
I serv'd my king, He would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies !

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