Francis I. (b. 1494, d. 1547), King of France, was taken prisoner at the battle of Pavia, and confined at Madrid, Spain, nearly a year.  Austerlitz.—­See Note on p. 150.

Lafayette (b. 1757, d. 1834), a French marquis, who served as major general in the Revolutionary War in America, which terminated in 1783.  Lafayette revisited this country in 1824, and was received throughout the land with the greatest enthusiasm.

Robert Raikes (b. 1735, d. 1811), an English printer and philanthropist, noted as the founder of Sunday schools.

Howard, John (b. 1726, d. 1790), a celebrated English philanthropist, who spent much of his life in the endeavor to reform the condition of prisons in Europe.

XXXIX.  FALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEY. (167)

Wolsey.  Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! 
        This is the state of man:  to-day he puts forth
        The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,
        And bears his blushing honors 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 forever hide me. 
        Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: 
        I feel my heart new open’d.  Oh, how wretched
        Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favors! 
        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.

Enter Cromwell, and stands amazed.

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 fed within me
      A peace above all earthly dignities,
      A still and quiet conscience.  The king has cured 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 honor: 
      Oh, ’t is a burthen, Cromwell, ’tis a burthen,
      Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven!