THE TRAGEDY OF SIR JOHN VAN OLDEN BARNAVELT.

Sir John Van Olden Barnavelt.

Actus Primus.

SCAENA PRIMA.

    Enter Barnavelt, Modes-bargen, Leidenberck, and Grotius.

Bar.  The Prince of Orange now, all names are lost els!  That hees alone the Father of his Cuntrie!  Said you not so?

Leid.  I speake the peoples Language.

Bar.  That to his arme and sword the Provinces owe Their flourishing peace? that hees the armyes soule By which it moves to victorie?

Mod.  So ’tis said, Sir.

Leid.  Nay, more; that without him dispaire and ruyn Had ceazd on all and buried quick our safeties.

Gro.  That had not he in act betterd our counsailes
And in his execution set them off,
All we designd had ben but as a tale
Forgot as soone as told.

Leid.  And with such zeale
This is deliverd that the Prince beleeves it;
For Greatnes, in her owne worth confident,
Doth never waigh but with a covetous hand
His lightest meritts, and who add to the scale
Seldom offend.

Gro.  ’Tis this that swells his pride
Beyond those lymitts his late modestie
Ever observd.  This makes him count the Soldier
As his owne creature, and to arrogate
All prosperous proceedings to himself;
Detracts from you and all men, you scarce holding
The second place.

Bar.  When I gave him the first: 
I robd myself, for it was justly mine. 
The labourinthes of pollicie I have trod
To find the clew of safetie, for my Cuntrie
Requird a head more knowing and a courage
As bold as his,—­though I must say ’tis great. 
His stile of Excellencie was my guift;
Money, the strength and fortune of the war,
The help of England and the aide of Fraance,
I only can call mine:  and shall I then,
Now in the sun-set of my daie of honour,
When I should passe with glory to my rest
And raise my Monument from my Cuntries praises,
Sitt downe and with a boorish patience suffer
The harvest that I labourd for to be
Anothers spoile? the peoples thancks and praises,
Which should make faire way for me to my grave,
To have another object? the choice fruites
Of my deepe projects grace anothers Banquet? 
No; this ungratefull Cuntry, this base people,
Most base to my deserts, shall first with horrour
Know he that could defeat the Spanish counsailes
And countermyne their dark works, he that made
The State what ’tis, will change it once againe
Ere fall with such dishonour.

Mod.  Be advisd, Sir;
I love you as a friend, and as a wise man
Have ever honourd you:  be as you were then,
And I am still the same.  Had I not heard
Theis last distemperd words, I would have sworne
That in the making up of Barnavelt
Reason had only wrought, passion no hand in’t. 
But now I find you are lesse then a man,
Lesse then a common man, and end that race
You have so long run strongly like a child,
For such a one old age or honours surfeyts
Againe have made you.