Cromwell. How does your Grace?
Wolsey. Why, well;
Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
I know myself now, and I feel within me
A peace above all earthly dignities,
A still and quiet conscience. The King has cur’d me,
I humbly thank his Grace; and, from these shoulders,
These ruin’d pillars, out of pity taken
A load would sink a navy, too much honour.
Henry VIII. act 3. sc. 6.
Ulysses speaking of Hector:
I wonder now how yonder city stands
When we have here the base and pillar by us.
Troilus and Cressida, act 4. sc. 9.
Othello. No, my heart is turn’d to stone: I strike it and it hurts my hand.
Othello, act 4. sc. 5.
Not less, even in this despicable now,
Than when my name fill’d Afric with affrights,
And froze your hearts beneath your torrid zone.
Don Sebastian King of Portugal, act 1.
How long a space, since first I lov’d, it is!
To look into a glass I fear,
And am surpris’d with wonder, when I miss
Grey hairs and wrinkles there.
Cowley, vol. 1. p. 86.
I chose the flourishing’st tree in all the park
With freshest boughs, and fairest head;
I cut my love into his gentle bark,
And in three days behold ’tis dead;
My very written flames so violent be,
They’ve burnt and wither’d up the tree.
Cowley, vol. 1. p. 136.
Ah, mighty Love, that it were inward heat
Which made this precious Limbeck sweat!
But what, alas, ah what does it avail
That she weeps tears so wond’rous cold,
As scarce the asses hoof can hold,
So cold, that I admire they fall not hail.
Cowley, vol. 1. p. 132.