The Works of William Shakespeare [Cambridge Edition] [Vol. 6 of 9]Shakespeare, William
General
The Works of William Shakespeare [Cambridge Edition] [Vol. 6 of 9]
Shakespeare, William
English drama
_King._ Good my lord,
You are full of heavenly stuff, and bear the inventory
Of your best graces in your mind; the which[546]
You were now running o'er: you have scarce time
To steal from spiritual leisure a brief span[547] 140
To keep your earthly audit: sure, in that
I deem you an ill husband, and am glad[548]
To have you therein my companion.
_Wol._ Sir,
For holy offices I have a time; a time[549]
To think upon the part of business which[550] 145
I bear i' the state; and nature does require
Her times of preservation, which perforce
I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal,
Must give my tendance to.
_King._ You have said well.
_Wol._ And ever may your highness yoke together, 150
As I will lend you cause, my doing well
With my well saying!
_King._ 'Tis well said again;
And 'tis a kind of good deed to say well:
And yet words are no deeds. My father loved you:
He said he did, and with his deed did crown[551] 155
His word upon you. Since I had my office,[552]
I have kept you next my heart; have not alone
Employ'd you where high profits might come home,
But pared my present havings, to bestow
My bounties upon you.
_Wol._ [_Aside_] What should this mean?[553] 160
_Sur._ [_Aside_] The Lord increase this business![553]
_King._ Have I not made you
The prime man of the state? I pray you, tell me,
If what I now pronounce you have found true:
And, if you may confess it, say withal,
If you are bound to us or no. What say you? 165
_Wol._ My sovereign, I confess your royal graces,
Shower'd on me daily, have been more than could
My studied purposes requite; which went[554]
Beyond all man's endeavours: my endeavours[555]
Have ever come too short of my desires, 170
Yet filed with my abilities: mine own ends[556]
Have been mine so that evermore they pointed[557]
To the good of your most sacred person and
The profit of the state. For your great graces
Heap'd upon me, poor undeserver, I 175
Can nothing render but allegiant thanks,
My prayers to heaven for you, my loyalty,
Which ever has and ever shall be growing[558]
Till death, that winter, kill it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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