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Cran. Let me speak, sir; For Heaven now bids me: and the words I utter Let none think flattery, for they'll find them truth. This royal infant, (Heaven still move about her!) Though in her cradle, yet now promises Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings, Which time shall bring to ripeness: She shall be A pattern to all princes living with her, And all that shall succeed. Truth shall nurse her, Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her: She shall be lov’d, and fear'd : Her own shall bless her; Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn, And hang their heads with sorrow: Our children's children Shall see this, and bless Heaven. King. Thou speakest wonders. Cran. She shall be, to the happiness of England, An aged princess; many days shall see her, And yet no day without a deed to crown it. 'Would I had known no more but she must die, She must, the saints must have her; yet a virgin, A most unspotted lily shall she pass To the ground, and all the world shall mourn her. King. O lord archbishop, This oracle of comfort has so pleas'd me, That, when I am in heaven, I shall desire To see what this child does.—I thank you all.— Lead the way, lords;– Ye must all see the queen, and she must thank you, She will be sick else. This day, no man think He has business at his house; for all shall stay; This little one shall make it holiday. [Flourish of Trumpets and Drums, Ereunt.