Bar.  I thanck ye.

Pro.  Pray ye give me leave; Ile send him to your Honour.
          
                                         [Exit.

Bar.  Now, Barnavelt, thou treadst the subtlest path,
The hardest and the thorniest, most concernes thee,
That ere thy carefull course of life run through: 
The Master peece is now a foot, which if it speed
And take but that sure hold I ayme it at,
I make no doubt but once more, like a Comet,
To shine out faire and blaze prodigiously
Even to the ruyn of those men that hate me.

    Enter Leidenberch.

—­I am sorry for your fortune.

Leid.  ’Tis a sad one And full of burthen, but I must learne to beare it.  How stands your State?

Bar.  Upon a ball of yce That I can neither fix, nor fall with safetie.

Leid.  The heavie hand of heaven is now upon us And we exposd, like bruizd and totterd vessells, To merciles and cruell Seas to sinck us.

Bar.  Our Indiscreations are our evill fortunes,
And nothing sincks us but [our] want of providence. 
O you delt coldly, Sir, and too too poorely,
Not like a man fitt to stem tides of dangers,
When you gave way to the Prince to enter Utrecht. 
There was a blow, a full blow at our fortunes;
And that great indiscreation, that mayne blindnes,
In not providing such a constant Captaine,
One of our owne, to commaund the watch, but suffer
The haughtie English to be masters of it,—­
This was not well nor fitting such a wisdom,
Not provident.

Leid.  I must confes my errour; The beastly coldnes of the drowsy Burgers Put me past all my aymes.

Bar.  O, they are sweet Jewells! 
He that would put his confidence in Turnops[173]
And pickled Spratts—­Come, yet resume your Courage,
Pluck up that leaden hart and looke upon mee;
Modesbargen’s fledd, and what we lockt in him
Too far of from their subtle keys to open,
Yf we stand constant now to one another
And in our soules be true.

Leid.  That comes too late, Sir, Too late to be redeemd:  as I am unfortunate In all that’s gone before, in this—­

Bar.  What?

Leid.  O, In this, this last and greatest—­

Bar.  Speake.

Leid.  Most miserable.  I have confessd.  Now let your eies shoot through me And if there be a killing anger sinck me.

Bar.  Confessd!

Leid.  ’Tis done:  this traitor tongue has don it, This coward tongue.

Bar.  Confessd!

Leid.  He lookes me blind now.