On the day that this was written Philip and Mary and their Court in state barges rowed from Richmond to Southwark, where they landed at the Bishop of Winchester’s house, and after killing a fat buck in Southwark Park, slept at the palace which stood upon the site of the present London Bridge Station, in order to start betimes in the morning of the next day across London Bridge, and so through the capital to Whitehall. All the fifty gibbets in the streets upon which Wyatt’s men had hanged were cleared away; the heads of the noble malefactors on the spikes at the Bridge-foot were no longer to be seen. All that paint and gilt and pageantry and pleasant looks could do to make the dour Londoners think well of the Queen’s Consort was done. Gog and Magog in new suits stood at the drawbridge that spanned the space from London Bridge end to the Southwark shore. Triumphs stood at the street corners, one of the first, that in Gracechurch Street, containing the maladroit statue of Henry VIII. with the Bible labelled _Verbum Dei_ in his hand, that so much moved Bishop Gardiner’s wrath.[62] Past kneeling aldermen and velvet-clad guildsmen, and with a great train of splendid courtiers, Philip and his English wife rode through the silent crowds, whilst the guns of the White Tower thundered what was at the same time a salute to the King and a warning to the people. The official greetings were, as usual, extravagantly fulsome. That borne by Gog and Magog is thus translated— “O Noble Prince, sole hope of Cæsar’s side, By God appointed all the world to guide, Right harteley welcome art thou to our land. The archer Britayne yieldeth thee her hand; And noble England openeth her bosom Of hartie affection for to bid thee welcome: But chiefly London doth her love vouchsafe, Rejoicing that her Philip has come safe. She seeith her citizens love thee on each side And trusts they shall be happy of such a guide, And al do thinke that thou art sent to their citie By th’ only means of God’s paternal pitie, So that their minde, voice, study, power and will, Is only set to love thee, Philip, still”—[63] and from Gracechurch to Whitehall tributes in Latin verse even more eulogistic than this greeted the man whose very presence the great mass of the people had been taught to dread. All the Philips that ever lived were dwarfed, he was told, by such a paragon of excellence as himself; Orpheus had not such power to move as by his eloquence could this reticent, mumbling Philip, who spoke but little of any language but his own. “In like case now, thy grace of speech so franke, Doth comfort us whose minds afore were bleak And therefore England giveth thee harty thanke Whose chiefest joy is to hear thee Philip speke.”[64]