rld 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.

1 _Lord_. Will ye confes your faultes?

_Bar_. I come not heather
To make myself guilty; yet one fault I must utter,
And 'tis a great one.

2 _Lord_. The greater mercy.

_Bar_. I dye for saving this unthanckfull Cuntry.

1 _Lord_. Play not with heaven.

_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.

_Exec_. I shall observe ye.

_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?

2 _Lord_. Take your owne time, Sir.

_Bar_. I have a wiffe, my lords, and wretched children,
Unles it please his Grace to looke upon 'em
And your good honours with your eies of favour.
'Twill be a litle happines in my death
That they partake not with their fathers ruyns.

1 _Lord_. Let not that troble ye: they shall not find it.

_Bar_. Commend my last breath to his Excellence;
T