'Would, I had known no more! but she must die, (19)
She muft, the Saints must have her yet a Virgin;
A most unfpotted lily the 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 fhall 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 fhe muft thank ye,
She will be fick elfe. This day no man think,
H'as bufinefs at his house, for all fhall ftay;
This little one fhall make it holy day.

(19) Would I bad known no more; but he must die, She muft, the Saints must have ber yet a Virgin,

[Exeunt.

A moft unspotted Lily, &c.] Thus the Editors hitherto, in their 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 that she must dié 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 advis'd;

And your good Brethren

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

EPILOGUE.

'T

IS ten to one, this Play can never please

All that are here: fome come to take their ease,
And fleep an A&t or two; but those, we fear,
We've frighted with our trumpets! So '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 women;
(For fuch a one we fhew'd'em) If they smile,
And fay, 'twill do ; I know within a while
All the best men are ours; for 'tis ill hap,
If they hold, when their ladies bid 'em clap.

The End of the Fifth Volume.