Bred.  Take better thoughts.

Bar.  They are my first and last,
The legacie I leave my friends behind me. 
I never knew to flatter, to kneele basely
And beg from him a smile owes me an honour. 
Ye are wreatches, poore starv’d wreatches fedd on crumbs
That he flings to ye:  from your owne aboundaunce
Wreatched and slavish people ye are becom
That feele the griping yoak and yet bow to it. 
What is this man, this Prince, this God ye make now,
But what our hands have molded, wrought to fashion,
And by our constant labours given a life to? 
And must we fall before him now, adoare him,
Blow all we can to fill his sailes with greatnes? 
Worship the Image we set up ourselves? 
Put fate into his hand? into his will
Our lives and fortunes? howle and crye to our owne clay
“Be mercifull, o Prince?” o, pittied people! 
Base, base, poore patch men!  You dare not heare this;
You have sold your eares to slavery; begon and flatter. 
When ere your politick Prince putts his hooke into my nose
Here must he put his Sword too.

Bred.  We lament ye.

[Exeunt.

    Enter the Son.

Son.  We are undon, Sir.

Bar.  Why?

Son.  For certaine perishd. Utrecht is taken in, Modesbargen fled, And Leidenberge a Servant to their pleasures,—­ A prisoner, Sir.

Bar.  Ha!

Son.  ’Tis too true.

Bar.  A prisoner?

Son.  And, some say, has byn tortured, reveald much,
Even all he knowes.  No letters are against ye,
For those he burnt; but they have so much foold him
That his owne tongue—­

Bar.  He cannot be so boyish.

Son.  My goverment of Barghen is disposd of; Their anger now against us all profest, And in your ruyn all must fall.

Bar.  A prisoner!
Modesbargen fledd!  I am glad he is scapt their fingers. 
Now if the devill had but this Leidenberge
I were safe enough.  What a dull foole was I,
A stupid foole, to wrap up such a secreat
In a sheepes hart! o I could teare my flesh now
And beat my leaden braines!

Son.  Faith, try the Prince, Sir; You are at your last.

Bar.  Art thou my Son? thou lyest;
I never got a Parasite, a Coward. 
I seeke the Prince or bend in base submission! 
Ile seeke my grave first.  Yf I needes must fall
And that the fatall howre is cast of Barnavelt,
Just like a strong demolishd Tower ile totter
And fright the neighbour Cuntries with my murmour. 
My ruyns shall reach all:  the valiant Soldier,
Whose eies are unacquainted but with anger,
Shall weep for me because I fedd and noursd him;
Princes shall mourne my losse, and this unthanckfull,
Forgetful Cuntry, when I sleepe in ashes,
Shall feele and then confes I was a father.