_Bar_. My head? What art thou? from whom sent?
_Bar_. Are they so greedy of my blood?--O, pardon me: I know thee now; thou art my honest Servant. What would thy Lady?
_Bar_. I cannot eate; I am full alredy, tell hir: Bid hir sitt downe: full, full, too full. [_Exit Serv_. My thancks Poyzd equally with those faire services I have done the States, I should walk confidently Upon this high-straind danger. O, this end swayes me, A heavy bad opinion is fixt here That pulls me of; and I must downe for ever.
_Bar_. Please me! what please me?--that I send thee, Girle, To some of my great Masters to beg for me. Didst thou meane so?
_Bar_. Thou art too charitable To prostitute thy beutie to releeve me; With thy soft kisses to redeeme from fetters The stubborne fortune of thy wretched father.
_Bar_. Prethee, good Girle, Be not so cruell to thy aged father To somme up all his miseries before him.
_Daught_. I come, Sir, to entreat your Company.
_Daught_. My Mother will not eate, Sir. --What fitt is this!
_Bar_. There can be no attonement: I know the Prince: _Vandort_ is fleshd upon me, And _Bredero_, though he be of noble nature, Dare not step in. Wher's my Son _William_? His Goverment is gon, too; and the Soldier, O, the falce Soldier! What! wouldst thou have a husband? Goe, marry an English Captaine, and hee'll teach thee How to defy thy father and his fortune.-- I cannot eate; I have no stomach, Girle.
_Bar_. No news from _Grotius_? No flow of frends there? _Hoger-beets_ lye still, too? --Away: ile come anon.
_Daught_. Now heaven preserve ye! [_Exit_.
_Bar_. A gentle Girle: why should not I pray, too? I had nere more need. When I am sett and gon, What understanding can they stick up then To fill the place I bore? None, not a man: To traffick with Great Princes? none: to deale With all the trobles of the war? None, certaine, no man: To bring in daylie treasure? I know no man; They cannot pick a man made up to serve 'em. Why should I feare then? doubt, and fly before Myne owne weake thoughts?--Art thou there, too?
_Wife_. Fy, fy, Sir: Why do you suffer theis sad dead retirements To choake your speritts? You have studied long enough To serve the uses of those men that scorne ye; 'Tis time you take your ease now.