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 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
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.--Exeunt.