owne then,
And now with speedy Justice let's prepare
To cutt off this Imposthume.

_Enter Provost & Guard, with Barnavelt_.

_Vand_. 'Tis high time, Sir.

_Prov_. Roome for the Prisoner!

_Vand_. Bring him in; Sit downe, Sir,
And take your last place with us.

_Bar_. 'Tis your forme
And I infringe no order.

_Bred_. Mounseiur _Barnavelt_,
Will ye confes yet freely your bad practises
And lay those Instruments open to the World,
Those bloody and bold Instruments you wrought by?
Mercy may sleepe awhile but never dyes, Sir.

_Bar_. I have spoake all I can, and seald that all
With all I have to care for now, my Conscience.
More I beseech your honours--

_Or_. Take your pleasure.

_Vand_. You will give us no more lights: What this world gives you,
To morrow thus we take away. Receive it.

_Bar_. My Sentence?

_Vand_. Yes; consider for your soule now,
And so farewell.

_Bar_. I humbly thanck your honours:
I shall not play my last Act worst.

_Bred_. Heavens mercy
And a still conscience wayt upon your end, Sir.

_Or_. Now guard him back againe: by the break of day
You shall have order from us.

_Prov_. Roome for the Prisoner!--

[_Ext. Provost and Guard, with Barnavelt_.

_Or_. The world shall know that what's iust we dare doe.

_Vand_. Nor shall the desperate act of _Leidenberch_
Delude what we determind. Let his Coffin
Be therefore hangd up on the publique Gallowes.
Th'Executioners like hungry vultures
Have smelld out their imployment.

_Or_. Let them have it:
And all that plot against the generall good
Learne from this mans example, great in age,
Greater in wealth and in authoritie,
But matchles in his worldly pollicie,
That there is one above that do's deride
The wisest counsailes that are misaplide.

[_Exeunt_.

SCAENA 2.

_Enter Harlem, Leyden & Utrecht Executioners_.

_Har_. Now hard and sharpe, for a wager, who shall doe it. Here's a
Sword would doe a man's head good to be cut of with it; cures all
rhumes, all Catharres, megroomes, verteegoes: presto, be gone!

_Ley_. You must not carry it, _Harlem_: you are a pretty fellow and lop
the lyne of life well, but weake to _Baltazar_. Give roome for _Leyden_:
heer's an old Cutter, heer's one has polld more pates and neater then a
dicker[204], of your Barbers; they nere need washing after. Do's not thy
neck itch now to be scratchd a little with this?

_Har_. No, in truth do's