1 Gu.  I beseech your Grace to pardon me.[153]

Or.  Do’st thou know who I am?

1 Gu.  Yes, Sir, and honour you.

Or.  Why do’st thou keep the dore fast then?

Will.  Thou fellow,
Thou sawcy fellow, and you that stand by gaping! 
Is the Prince of no more value, no more respect
Then like a Page?

2 Gu.  We beseech your Excellencies
To pardon us; our duties are not wanting,
Nor dare we entertaine a thought to crosse ye: 
We are placed here on Commaund.

Or.  To keepe me out? 
Have I lost my place in Councell? are my services
Growne to so poore regards, my worth so bankrupt? 
Or am I tainted with dishonest actions,
That I am held unfitt my Cuntries busines? 
Who placd ye here?

1 Gu.  The body of the Councell; And we beseech your Grace make it not our syn:  They gave us strict commaund to stop your passage.

Or.  ’Twas frendly don and like my noble masters.

Will.  Deny you place? make good the dore against ye?  This is unsufferable, most unsufferable.

Or.  Now I begin to feele those doubts; I feare still—­

Col.  So far to dare provoke ye! ’tis too monstrous;
And you forget your self, your birth, your honour,
The name of Soldier if you suffer this,
Suffer from these, these things, these—­pox upon’t!—­
These molds of men made noble by your services,
Your daylie sweatts.

1 Cap.  It must not be endured thus, The wrong extends to us, we feele it severally.

2 Cap.  Your sweet humillitie has made ’em scorne ye
And us, and all the world that serve their uses;
And stick themselves up teachers, masters, princes,
Allmost new gods too, founders of new faithes. 
—­Weell force your way.

Col.  Let’s see then who dare stop ye.

Gu.  Not we, I am sure.

Col.  Let’s see who dare denie ye Your place and right of councell.

Or.  Stay, I commaund ye;
He that puts forward first to this wild action
Has lost my love and is becom mine Enemy,
My mortall enemie.  Put up your weapons,
You draw ’em against order, duty, faith;
And let me die ere render such examples. 
The men you make so meane, so slight account of,
And in your angers prise, not in your honours,
Are Princes, powerfull Princes, mightie Princes;
That daylie feed more men of your great fashion
And noble ranck, pay and maintaine their fortunes,
Then any monarch Europe has:  and for this bountie,
If ye consider truly, Gentlemen,
And honestly, with thankfull harts remember,
You are to pay them back againe your service: 
They are your masters, your best masters, noblest,
Those that protect your states, hold up your fortunes;
And for this good you are to sacrifize
Your thancks and duties, not your threats and angers. 
I and all Soldiers els that strike with their armes,
And draw from them the meanes of life and honour,
Are doble tyde in faith to observe their pleasures.