I have never seen Henry VIII, which William Shakespeare (1564-1616) cowrote with John Fletcher (1579-1626). It is rarely performed, but I encountered some of this speech delivered by Ralph Fiennes playing the great 19^th century actor Henry Irving in Grace Pervades, a play by David Hare. https://richardswsmith.wordpress.com/2026/07/14/an-enjoyable-play-that-centres-on-the-great-theatre-that-came-from-the-contrast-between-henry-irving-and-ellen-terry/

The speech is made by Cardinal Wolsey, Henry VIII’s great fixer, as he fell from the king’s favour. We who watch it today know that Thomas Cromwell, who was mentored by Wolsey but was prominent in his downfall, also fell from the King’s favour. As the speech says: “O how wretched/ Is that poor man that hangs on princes’ favours!” We know as well that all great men—presidents, prime ministers, kings, tech titans, football managers—ultimately fall, into the arms of death if nowhere else.

I think of Keir Starmer, who gave his farewell speech as Prime minister in the House of Commons yesterday, and of Andy Burnham, his successor, who will no doubt fall soon. Nigel Farage, the populist leader of Reform, is falling as I write, and I hope that Donald J Trump will follow him soon. I thought last night after England lost to Argentina in the semi-final of the World Cup that the manager Thomas Tuchel would fall as well, but his fall seems to be delayed.

Imagine if Starmer had delivered this speech in the House of Commons yesterday instead of the inevitably soggy and sentimental speech he did deliver. How dramatic it would have been, more dramatic that the football match.

So Farewell by William Shakespeare

So farewell—to the little good you bear me.

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 honours 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 ventur’d,

 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 for ever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!

I feel my heart new open’d. 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.