a-ripening

So , farewell to the little good you bear me .

Farewell ? A long farewell to all my greatness !
This is the state of man : today he puts forth
The tender leaves of hopes ; tomorrow 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 you .
I feel my heart new opened . O , 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 .



Why , how now , Cromwell ?