The Bodleian First Folio

The Life of King Henry the Eight. Holy and Heauenly thoughts still Counsell her:

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She shall be lou'd and fear'd. Her owne shall blesse her; Her Foes shake like a Field of beaten Corne, And hang their heads with sorrow: Good growes with her. In her dayes, Euery Man shall eate in safety,

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Vnder his owne Vine what he plants; and sing The merry Songs of Peace to all his Neighbours. God shall be truely knowne, and those about her, From her shall read the perfect way of Honour, And by those claime their greatnesse; not by Blood.

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Nor shall this peace sleepe with her: But as when The Bird of Wonder dyes, the Mayden Phoenix, Her Ashes new create another Heyre, As great in admiration as her selfe. So shall she leaue her Blessednesse to One,

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(When Heauen shal call her from this clowd of darknes) Who, from the sacred Ashes of her Honour Shall Star‑like rise, as great in fame as she was, And so stand fix'd. Peace, Plenty, Loue, Truth, Terror, That were the Seruants to this chosen Infant,

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Shall then be his, and like a Vine grow to him; Where euer the bright Sunne of Heauen shall shine, His Honour, and the greatnesse of his Name, Shall be, and make new Nations. He shall flourish,

And like a Mountaine Cedar, reach his branches,

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To all the Plaines about him: Our Childrens Children Shall see this, and blesse Heauen. Kin. Thou speakest wonders. Cran. She shall be to the happinesse of England, An aged Princesse; many dayes shall see her,

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And yet no day without a deed to Crowne it. Would I had knowne no more: But the must dye, She must, the Saints must haue her; yet a Virgin, A most vnspotted Lilly shall she passe To th'ground, and all the World shall mourne her. Kin.

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O Lord Archbishop Thou hast made me now a man, neuer before This happy Child, did I get any thing. This Oracle of comfort, ha's so pleas'd me, That when I am in Heauen, I shall desire

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To see what this Child does, and praise my Maker. I thanke ye all. To you my good Lord Maior, And you good Brethren, I am much beholding: I haue receiu'd much Honour by your presence, And ye shall find me thankfull. Lead the way Lords,

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Ye must all see the Queene, and she must thanke ye, She will be sicke els. This day, no man thinke 'Has businesse at his house; for all shall stay: This Little‑One shall make it Holy‑day. Exeunt.

THE EPILOGVE. TIs ten to one, this Play can neuer please All that are heere: Some come to take their ease, And sleepe an Act or two; but tbose we feare W'haue frighted with our Tumpets: so 'tis cleare, They'll say tis naught. Others to heare the City Abus'd extreamly, and to cry that's witty, Which wee haue not done neither; that I feare All the expected good w'are like to heare. For this Play at this time, is onely in The mercifull construction of good women, For such a one we shew'd 'em: If they smile, And say twill doe; I know within a while, All the best men are ours; for 'tis ill hap, If they hold, when their Ladies bid 'em clap.