Imatges de pÓgina

(But few or none living can behold that goodness)
A pattern to all Princes living with her,
And all that fhall fucceed. Sheba was never
More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue,
Than this bleft foul fhall be. All Princely graces,
That mould up fuch a mighty piece as this,
With all the virtues that attend the good,

Shall ftill be doubled on her. Truth fhall nurse her:
Holy and heav'nly thoughts ftill counfel her:

She fhall be lov'd and fear'd. Her own fhall blefs her;
Her foes fhake, like a field of beaten corn,
And hang their heads with forrow. Good grows with her,
In her days, ev'ry man fhall eat in fafety,
Under his own vine, what he plants; and fing
The merry fongs of peace to all his neighbours.
God fhall be truly known, and thofe about her
From her fhall read the perfect ways of honour,
And claim by those their Greatnefs, not by blood.
Nor fhall this peace fleep with her; but as when
The bird of wonder dies, the maiden Phoenix,
Her afhes new create another heir,

As great in admiration as herself;

So fhall the leave her bleffedness to one,

(When heav'n fhall call her from this cloud of darkness) Who from the facred afhes of her honour

Shall ftar-like rife, as great in fame as fhe was,

And fo ftand fix'd. Peace, Plenty, Love, Truth, Terrour,
That were the fervants to this chofen infant,
Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him;
Where-ever the bright fun of heav'n shall shine,
His honour and the greatness of his name
Shall be, and make new nations. He fhall flourish,
And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches
To all the plains about him: childrens' children
Shall fee this, and bless heav'n.

King. Thou fpeakeft wonders.

Cran. She fhall be, to the happiness of England,
An aged Princess; many days fhall fee her,
And yet no day without a deed to crown it.


'Would, I had known no more! but fhe muft die, (19) She muft, the Saints must have her yet a Virgin; A moft unfpotted lilly fhe fhall pafs

To th' ground, and all the world shall mourn her.
King. O lord Arch-bishop,

Thou'ft made me now a man; never, before
This happy child, did I get any thing.
This oracle of comfort has fo pleas'd me,
That when I am in heav'n, I shall defire
To fee what this child does, and praise my maker.
I thank ye all.To you, my good Lord Mayor,
And your good brethren, I am much beholden: (20)
I have receiv'd much honour by your prefence,
And ye shall find me thankful. Lead the way, lords:
Ye muft all fee the Queen, and she must thank ye,
She will be fick elfe. This day no man think,
H'as business at his houfe, for all shall stay;
This little one shall make it holy day.


(19) Would I had known no more: but She must die, She must, the Saints must have her; yet a Virgin, Amoft unspotted Lilly, &c.] Thus the Editors hitherto, in thei Sagacity, have pointed this Paffage, and deftroy'd the true Senfe of it. The firft part of this Sentence is a Wish: The other should be a forrowful Continuation of the Bishop's Prophecy. But, fure, Cranmer was too wife and pious a Man, too well acquainted with the State of Mortality, to make it a part of his Lamentation that this good Princess must one time or other go to Heaven. As I point it, the Poet makes a fine Compliment to his Royal Miftrefs's Memory, to lament thas The muft die without leaving an Heir of her Body behind her.

(20) And you good Brethren,] But, the Aldermen never were call'd Brethren to the King. The Top of the Nobility are but Coufins and Counsellors. Dr. Thirlby, therefore, rightly advised; And your good Brethren

i.e. the Lord Mayor's Brethren; which is properly their Style,


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IS ten to one, this Play can never please All that are here: Some come to take their eafe, And fleep an act or two; but those, we fear, We've frighted with our trumpets: fo'tis clear, They'll fay, it's naught. Others, to hear the city Abus'd extremely, and to cry, That's witty! Which we have not done neither; that, I fear, All the expected Good w'are like to hear For this Play at this time, is only in The merciful conftruction of good wom'n; (For fuch a one we fhew'd'em) If they fmile, And fay, 'twill do; I know within a while All the beft men are ours for 'tis ill hap, If they hold, when their ladies bid'em clap.

The End of the Fifth Volume.


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