In-Text |
Let the Sunne, as in the longest Summer dayes, rise out of the North, and our Northerne London bee a happie Mother of Language, Artes, Subiection, that the Irish Harpe may forget Romish, and be tuned English, and sing a new Song to God, who hath beene a Towre of saluation to his King, and made him the Towre of these great hopes, and happinesse to that Kingdome: |
Let the Sun, as in the longest Summer days, rise out of the North, and our Northern London be a happy Mother of Language, Arts, Subjection, that the Irish Harp may forget Romish, and be tuned English, and sing a new Song to God, who hath been a Tower of salvation to his King, and made him the Tower of these great hope's, and happiness to that Kingdom: |
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