e up
And if he lay his hands on _Barnavelt_,
His Court, our Guift, and where the generall States
Our equalls sit ile fry[175] about their eares
And quench it in their blood. What now I speake
Againe ile speake alowd; let who will tell it,
I never will fly from it.

_Hog_. What you purpose
I will not fly from.

_Gro_. Back you then to _Leyden_,
Ile keep at _Roterdam_: there if he fetch me
Ile nere repent whatever can fall on me.

[_Exeunt_.

SCAENA 6.

_Enter Leidenberch & Boy_.

_Boy_. Shall I help you to bed, Sir,
[_Taper, pen & inke: Table_.

_Leid_. No, my Boy, not yet.

_Boy_. 'Tis late and I grow sleepie.

_Leid_. Goe to bed then,
For I must wryte, my Childe.

_Boy_. I had rather watch, Sir,
If you sitt up, for I know you will wake me.

_Leid_. Indeed I will not; goe, I have much to doe;
Prethee to bed; I will not waken thee.

_Boy_. Pray, Sir, leave wryting till to morrow.

_Leid_. Why, Boy?

_Boy_. You slept but ill last night, and talkd in your sleep, too;
Tumbled and tooke no rest.

_Leid_. I ever doe soe.
Good Boy, to bed; my busines is of waight
And must not be deferrd: good night, sweet Boy.

_Boy_. My father was not wont to be so kind
To hug me and to kisse me soe.

_Leid_. Why do'st thou weep?

_Boy_. I cannot tell, but sure a tendernes,
Whether it be with your kind words unto me
Or what it is, has crept about my hart, Sir,
And such a sodaine heavynes withall, too.

_Leid_.--Thou bringst fitt mourners for my funerall.

_Boy_. But why do you weep, father?

_Leid_. O, my Boy,
Thy teares are dew-drops, sweet as those on roses,
But mine the faint and yron sweatt of sorrow.
Prethee, sweet Child, to bed; good rest dwell with thee,
And heaven returne a blessing: that's my good Boy. [_Exit boy_.
--How nature rises now and turnes me woman
When most I should be man! Sweet hart, farewell,
Farewell for ever. When we get us children
We then doe give our freedoms up to fortune
And loose that native courage we are borne to.
To dye were nothing,--simply to leave the light;
No more then going to our beds and sleeping;
But to leave all these dearnesses behind us,
These figures of our selves that we call blessings,
Is that which trobles. Can man beget a thing
That shalbe deerer then himself unto him?
--Tush, _Leidenberch_: thinck what thou art to doe;
Not to play _Niobe_ weeping ore her Children,
Unles that _Barna