SCAENA 3.

    Enter[150] Pr. of Orange, Gra:  William,
    Collonells & Captaines.

Or.  I, now methincks I feele the happynes
Of being sproong from such a noble father,
That sacrifizd his honour, life and fortune
For his lov’d Cuntry.  Now the blood and kindred
Of Horne and Egmont (Memories great Martires),
That must outlive all Alva’s Tirranies
And when their Stories told ev’n shake his ashes,
Methincks through theis vaines now, now at this instant,
I feele their Cuntries losse; I feele[151] too—­

Will.  All feele sencibly,
And every noble hart laments their miseries,
And every eie, that labours not with mallice,
Sees your great services and through what dangers
You have raisd those noble speritts monuments.

Or.  What I have don I look not back to magnifie;
My Cuntry calld me to it.  What I shall yet doe,
With all the industrie and strength I have lent me
And grace of heaven to guid, so it but satisfie
The expectation of the State commaunds me
And in my Cuntries eye appeere but lovely,
I shall sitt downe, though old and bruizd yet happie;
Nor can the bitter and bold tounge of mallice,
That never yet spoke well of faire deservings,
With all hir course aspersions floong upon me
Make me forsake my dutie, touch or shake me
Or gaine so much upon me as an anger,
Whilst here I hold me loyall.  Yet believe, Gentlemen,
Theis wrongs are neither few nor slight, nor followed
By liberall tongues provokd by want or wine,
For such were to be smild at and so slighted,
But by those men, and shot so neer mine honour
I feare my person too; but, so the State suffer not,
I am as easie to forget.

Will.  Too easie;
And that feeds up their mallice to a Monster. 
You are the arme oth’ war, the Soldiers sperit;
The other but dead stories, you the dooer.

Col.  It stands not with the honour you have won, Sir, Still built upon and betterd.

Or.  No more, good Collonell.

Col.  The love the Soldier beares you to give way thus! 
To have your actions consturd, scornd and scoffd at
By such malignant soules! you are yourself, Sir,
And master of more mindes that love and honour ye.[152]

Will.  Yf you would see it; but take through the mallice The evill intended now, now bent upon ye.

Or.  I pray ye, no more; as you love me, no more. 
Stupid I never was nor so secure yet
To lead my patience to mine owne betraying: 
I shall find time and riper cause.—­ [Guard at dore. 
                          Now, frends,
Are my Lords the States set yet.

1 Gu.  An houre agoe, Sir.

Or.  Beshrew ye, Gentlemen, you have made me tardy:  Open the dore,