or cuckold-maker, let me never hope to fee a chine again; and that I would not for a cow, God fave her. Within. Do you hear, Mr. Porter?

Port. I fhall be with you prefently, good Mr. Puppy. Keep the door close, firrah.

Man. What would you have me do?

Port. What fhould you do, but knock 'em down by the dozens? is this Morefields to mufter in? or have we fome ftrange Indian with the great tool come to Court, the women fo befiege us? blefs me! what a fry of fornication is at the door? on my chriftian conscience, this one chriftning will beget a thousand; here will be father, god-father, and all together.

Man. The fpoons will be the bigger, Sir. There is a fellow fomewhat near the door, he should be a brafier by his face; for, o' my confcience, twenty of the dog-days now reign in's nofe; all that ftand about him are under the line, they need no other penance; that fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me; he ftands there like a mortar-piece to blow us up. There was a haberdasher's wife of fmall wit near him, that rail'd upon me 'till her pink'd porringer fell off her head, for kindling fuch a combuftion in the state. I mist the meteor once, and hit that woman, who cry'd out, Clubs! when I might fee from far fome forty truncheoneers draw to her fuccour; which were the hope of the ftrand, where he was quarter'd. They fell on; I made good my place; at length they came to th' broomftaff with me, I defy'd 'em ftill; when fuddenly a file of boys behind 'em deliver'd fuch a fhower of pibbles, loofe fhot, that I was fain to draw mine honour in, and let 'em win the Work; the devil was amongst 'em, I think, furely.

Port. Thefe are the youths that thunder at a playhoufe; and fight for bitten apples; that no audience but the Tribulation of Tower-Hil, or the limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have fome of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance

thefe

thefe three days; befides the running banquet of two beadles, that is to come.

Enter Lord Chamberlain.

Cham. Mercy o' me! what a multitude are here?
They grow ftill too; from all parts they are coming,
As if we kept a fair. Where are these porters;
These lazy knaves? ye've made a fine hand, fellows &
There's a trim rabble let in; are all these

Your faithful friends o'th' fuburbs? we shall have
Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies,
When they pass back from th' chriftning?
Port. Please your Honour,

We are but men; and what fo many may do,
Not being torn in pieces, we have done :
An army cannot rule 'em.

Cham. As I live,

If the King blame me for't, I'll lay ye all
By th' heels, and fuddenly; and on your heads
Clap round fines for neglect: y'are lazy knaves;
And here ye lye baiting of bumbards, when
Ye fhould do fervice. Hark, the trumpets found;
Th' are come already from the christening;
Go break among the prefs, and find a way out
To let the troop pafs fairly; or I'll find

A Marshalfea, fhall hold you play these two month.
Port. Make way for the Princess.

Man. You great fellow, ftand close up, or I'll make your head ake.

Port. You i'th' camblet, get up o'th' rail, I'll peck you o'er the pales else.

[Exeunt.

SCENE

SCENE changes to the Palace.

Enter Trumpets founding; then two Aldermen, Lord Mayor, Garter, Cranmer, Duke of Norfolk with his Marshal's faff, Duke of Suffolk, two Noblemen bearing great ftanding bowls for the chriftning gifts; then four Noblemen bearing a canopy, under which the Dutchess of Norfolk, god-mother, bearing the child richly habited in a mantle, &c. Train born by a lady: then follows the Marchionefs of Dorfet, the other god-mother, and ladies. The troop pass once about the flage, and Garter peaks. Gart. Heav'n, from thy endless goodness send long life, And ever happy, to the high and mighty Princess of England, fair Elizabeth!

Flourish. Enter King and Guard.

Cran. And to your royal Grace, and the good Queen, My noble partners and myself thus pray;

All comfort, joy, in this moft gracious lady,

That heav'n e'er laid up to make parents happy,
May hourly fall upon ye!

King. Thank you, good lord Arch-bishop:
What is her name?

Cran. Elizabeth.

King. Stand up, lord.

With this kifs take my bleffing: God protect thee,
Into whose hand I give thy life.

Cran. Amen.

King. My noble goffips, y'have been too prodigal,
I thank you heartily: fo fhall this lady,
When she has fo much English.

Cran. Let me fpeak, Sir;

(For Heav'n now bids me) and the words I utter,
Let none think flattery, for they'll find 'em truth.
This royal Infant, (heaven still move about her)
Though in her cradle, yet now promises
Upon this land a thousand thousand bleffings,
Which time shall bring to ripeness. She fhall be

(But

(But few or none living can behold that goodness)
A pattern to all Princes living with her,
And all that fhall fucceed. Sheba was never
More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue,
Than this bleft foul fhall be. All Princely graces,
That mould up fuch a mighty piece as this,
With all the virtues that attend the good,

Shall ftill be doubled on her. Truth fhall nurse her:
Holy and heav'nly thoughts ftill counsel her:

She fhall be lov'd and fear'd. Her own fhall blefs her;
Her foes shake, like a field of beaten corn,

And hang their heads with forrow. Good grows with her.
In her days, ev'ry man fhall eat in fafety,
Under his own vine, what he plants; and fing
The merry fongs of peace to all his neighbours.
God fhall be truly known, and those about her
From her fhall read the perfect ways of honour,
And claim by those their Greatness, not by blood.
Nor fhall this peace fleep with her; but as when
The bird of wonder dies, the maiden Phoenix,
Her afhes new create another heir,

As great in admiration as herself;

So fhall the leave her bleffedness to one,

(When heav'n fhall call her from this cloud of darkness) Who from the facred afhes of her honour

Shall ftar-like rife, as great in fame as fhe was,

And fo ftand fix'd. Peace, Plenty, Love, Truth, Terrour,
That were the fervants to this chosen infant,

Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him;
Where-ever the bright fun of heav'n fhall shine,
His honour and the greatness of his name

Shall be, and make new nations. He fhall flourish,
And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches
To all the plains about him: childrens' children
Shall fee this, and bless heav'n.

King. Thou fpeakeft wonders.

Cran. She fhall be, to the happiness of England,
An aged Princess; many days shall fee her,
And yet no day without a deed to crown it.

'Would,

'Would, I had known no more! but she must die, (19)
She muft, the Saints must have her yet a Virgin;
A moft unfpotted lilly fhe 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 shall defire

To see 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 fhall find me thankful. Lead the way, lords:
Ye muft all fee the Queen, and she must thank ye,
She will be fick elfe. This day no man think,
H'as business at his houfe, for all shall stay;
This little one fhall make it holy day.

[Exeunt.

(19) Would I had known no more: but She muft die, She must, the Saints must have her; yet a Virgin, Amoft unspotted Lilly, &c.] Thus the Editors hitherto, in their Sagacity, have pointed this Paffage, and destroy'd the true Senfe of it. The first part of this Sentence is a Wish: The other should be a forrowful Continuation of the Bishop's Prophecy. But, fure, Cranmer was too wise and pious a Man, too well acquainted with the State of Mortality, to make it a part of his Lamentation that this good Princess muft 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 thas the muft die 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 advised; And your good Brethren

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

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