Cran. Let me speak, sir; For Heaven now bids me: and the words I utter Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings, 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, To the ground, and all the world shall mourn her. This oracle of comfort has so pleas'd me, all. Ye must all see the queen, and she must thank you, He has business at his house; for all shall stay; [Flourish of Trumpets and Drums.-Exeunt. THE END. |