“BOTHE freshe, and greene, the Laurell standeth sounde, Thoughe lightninges flasshe, and thunderboltes do flie: Where, other trees are blasted to the grounde, Yet, not one leafe of it, is withered drie: Euen so, the man that hathe a conscience cleare. When wicked men, doe quake at euerie blaste, Doth constant stande, and dothe no perrilles feare, When tempestes rage, doe make the worlde agaste: Suche men are like vnto the Laurell tree, The others, like the blasted boughes that die.” But a much fuller agreement with the above motto does Whitney express in the last stanza of Emblem 32,— “A conscience cleare, is like a wall of brasse, That dothe not shake, with euerie shotte that hittes; Eauen soe there by, our liues wee quiet passe, When guiltie mindes, are rack’de with fearful fittes: Then keepe thee pure, and soile thee not with sinne, For after guilte, thine inwarde greifes beginne.” The same property is assigned to the Laurel by Joachim Camerarius (“EX RE HERBARIA,” p. 35, edition 1590). He quotes several authorities, or opinions for supposing that the laurel was not injured by lightning. Pliny, he says, supported the notion; the Emperor Tiberius in thunder storms betook himself to the shelter of the laurel; and Augustus before him did the same thing, adding as a further protection a girdle made from the skin of a sea-calf. Our modern authorities give no countenance to either of these fancies. Now, combining the thoughts on Conscience presented by the Emblems on the subject which have been quoted, can we fail to perceive in Shakespeare, when he speaks of Conscience and its qualities, a general agreement with Sambucus, and more especially with Whitney? How finely, in _Henry VIII._ (act iii. sc. 2, l. 372, vol. vi. p. 76), do the old Cardinal and his faithful Cromwell converse,— “_Enter_ CROMWELL, _and stands amazed._ _Wol._ Why, how now, Cromwell! _Crom._ I have no power to speak, sir. _Wol._ What, amazed At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep, I am fall’n indeed. _Crom._ How does your grace? _Wol._ 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. . . . . . . . . I am able now, methinks, Out of a fortitude of soul I feel, To endure more miseries and greater far Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.”