“My sonne,” quoth I, “on whom my hopes I build:
Come neere to me, where heere in paine I lie,
Come neere and haue my blessing ere I die,
Nought else to thee is left for me to leaue,
Since of my crowne my foes do me bereaue.
94.
Wherefore ye heau’ns who do behold my woes,
Now at my death giue eare vnto my prayer,
Protect this child of mine from all his foes:
And for your mercie’s sake this infant spare,