devill cry 'mine owne! lye there, boyes!'
Then bind his eyes; last stir myself up bravely
And, in the midle of a whollsome praire,
Whip and--_hic iacet Barnavelt_.--
Come, let's sing our old Song,
And then come view me how I doe my busines.
Boy, come, sing you for me.

[_Song. Exeunt_.

SCAENA 3.

_Enter 2 Captaines[210] & their Soldiers, severally_.

1 _Cap_. Here stand we fast.

2 _Cap_. Cock all your Musketts, Soldiers, now,
And gentlemen be ready to bend your pikes;
The prisoner's comming out.

1 _Cap_. But doe you thinck
They meane to take his head of, or to fright him?

2 _Cap_. Heaven keep me from such frights. Why are theis Guards
Commaunded to make good the Execution,
If they intend not death?

1 _Cap_. But dare they doe it?

2 _Cap_. What dare not Justice do that's right and honest?
Is he not proov'd a guilty man? What bugs
Should publick safety be afraid to looke on?
Do you hold the United _States_ so tame to feare him,--
Feare him a Traitor, too?

1 _Cap_. You know hee's much lov'd,
And every where they stir in his Compassion.

2 _Cap_. They'll stir so long till some of 'em will sinck for't,
Some of the best I feare that glewd his faction;
Their building lyes discoverd and their bases broken.

1 _Cap_. There is much money laid in every place, too,
Hundreds and thousands, that they dare not strike him.

2 _Cap_. Give loosers leave to play the fooles; 'tis lost all.
Secure yourself he dyes; nor is it wisdom
To go an ace lesse with him: he is monstrous.
--The people hurry now; stand fast, he is comming.

_Enter Provost, Soldiers & Executioners, with a Coffin & a Gibbett_.

_Pro_. Make roome before! cleere all theis gaping people
And stop their passage.

1 _Cap_. How now? What wonder's this?

_Prov_. Stay! or ile make ye stay: I charge ye stir not.

2 _Cap_. What thinck you now? dare not theis men do Justice?
This is the body of _Leidenberg_, that killd himself
To free his Cause: his shame has found him yet.

_Prov_. Up with him, come: set all your hands & heave him!

_Exec_. A plaguy, heavy Lubber! Sure this fellow
Has a bushell of plot in's belly, he weighes so massy.
Heigh! now againe! he stincks like a hung poll cat.
This rotten treason has a vengeance savour;
This venison wants pepper and salt abhominably.

_Prov_. Pyn him aloft, and pin him sure.

_Exec_. I warrant ye;
If ere he run away againe ile swing for him.
This would make