Bred.  I know not nor I wish it not, But if he have a fowle hart’t has byn hid long, And cunningly that poyson has byn carried.

Vand.  But why a father to theis new professions? 
Why should he strengthen those opinions
That all true learning much laments and greives at
And sincks the soules sweet union into ruyn? 
Why theis, my lords? and why in every Garrison,
Unles he had an end that shot at evill,
Should he so strongly plant theis fire-brands
And through his powre add daylie to their nombers?

Bred.  Most sure he is suspected, strongly suspected
But that a man of his great trust and busines
Should sinck or suffer under doubts or whispers
Or loose his honour by an others envy,
Is not faire play nor honest.  The Prince of Orange,
Most thinck, affects him not, nor he the Prince. 
That either of their angry wills should prove
A lawful act to ruyn one another,
And not a medium of more open Justice,
More equall and more honorable, step in,
Man had no powre to stand nor fall with honour. 
If he be falce, honest and upright proofes
Will ripen the Imposture.

    Enter Barnavelt and his Son.

[1 Lord.[166] Here he comes, sir.]

Vand.  Methincks he beares not in his Countenaunce
The fulnes of that grave and constant sperit,
Nor in his eye appeeres that heat and quicknes
He was wont to move withall.—­Salute, and counsell: 
Let’s leave him to his thoughts.

Son.  They mind ye not:  Now, as I have a soule, they looke not on ye.

Bar.  My noble Lords, what is’t appeeres upon me
So ougly strange you start and fly my Companie? 
What plague sore have ye spide, what taynt in honour,
What ill howre in my life so cleere deserving
That rancks in this below your fellowships? 
For which of all my cares, of all my watches,
My services (too many and too mightie
To find rewards) am I thus recompenced,
Not lookd on, not saluted, left forgotten
Like one that came to petition to your honours,—­
Over the shoulder sleighted?

Bred.  Mounseiur Barnavelt,
I am sorry that a man of your great wisdom
And those rare parts that make ye lov’d and honourd,
In every Princes Court highly esteemd of,
Should loose so much in point of good and vertue
Now in the time you ought to fix your faith fast,
The creadit of your age, carelessly loose it,—­
I dare not say, ambitiously—­that your best frends,
And those that ever thought on your example,
Dare not with comon safetie now salute ye.

Bar.  I loose in point of honour!  My frends feare me!  My age suspected too! now as ye are iust men Unknit this riddle.

1 Lord.  You are doubted, strongly doubted.

Bar.  O the devill.

2 Lord.  Your loialtie suspected.