1 _Lord_. 'Tis strange how this [man b]rags; 'tis a strange impudence Not to be pittied in his [case], not sufferd. You breed the peace, you bring the plowgh againe? You wipe the fire and blood of from this Cuntry, And you restore hir to hir former Beuty? Blush in thine age, bad man; thy grave blush for thee And scorne to hide that man that holds no Creadit. Beare witnes all the world that knowes our Trobles Or ever greiv'd our plagues, what we have sufferd And, under Heaven, by what armes we have cur'd theis,-- Councells and frends; in which I tell thee (_Barnavelt_), And through thy Impudence I here proclaime it, Thou hadst the least and last share. 'Tis not your face, Sir, The greatnes of your friends, corruptly purchast, The Crying up of your manie Services, Which lookd into wither away like Mushrumps, Shall scandall us.
2 _Lord_. Your _Romaine_ end, to make men Imagine your strong conscience fortifide, No, nor your ground Religion. Examine all men Branded with such fowle syns as you now dye for, And you shall find their first stepp still Religion. _Gowrie_ in _Scotland_, 'twas his maine pretention: Was not he honest, too? his Cuntries father? Those fyery Speritts next that hatchd in _England_ That bloody Powder-Plot, and thought like meteors To have flashd their Cuntryes peace out in a Moment: Were not their Barrells loden with Religion? Were not they pious, iust and zealous Subiects? Humble your soule for shame, and seeke not now, Sir, To tumble from that happines even Angells Were throwne from for their pride. Confes, and dye well.
_Bar_. I come not heather To make myself guilty; yet one fault I must utter, And 'tis a great one.
_Bar_. I dye for saving this unthanckfull Cuntry.
_Bar_. My Game's as sure as yours is, And with more care and inocence I play it. Take of my doblet; and I prethee, fellow, Strike without feare.
_Exec_. I warrant ile fitt ye. I pray forgive me, Sir.
_Bar_. Most hartely, And heer's my hand. I love thee, too: thy physick Will quickly purge me from the worldes abuses. When I speak lowdest, strike.
_Bar_. Farwell, my lords: to all your Counsailes fortune, Happie succes and proffit; peace to this Cuntry; And to you all, that I have bredd like children, Not a more faithfull father but more fortunate. Doe not I stay too long?