2 Lord.  I, the Traitour, the fowle Traitour, Who, though he killd himself to cleere his cause, Justice has found him out and so proclaimd him.

Bar.  Have mercy on his soule!  I dare behold him.

1 Lord.  Beleeve me, he’s much moved.

2 Lord.  He has much reason.

Bar.  Are theis the holly praires ye prepare for me—­
The comforts to a parting soule?  Still I thanck ye,
Most hartely and lovingly I thanck ye. 
Will not a single death give satisfaction,
O you most greedy men and most ungratefull,—­
The quiet sleep of him you gape to swallow,
But you must trym up death in all his terrors
And add to soules departing frights and feavors? 
Hang up a hundred Coffins; I dare view ’em,
And on their heads subscribe a hundred treasons
It shakes not me, thus dare I smile upon ’em
And strongly thus outlooke your fellest Justice.

2 Lord.  Will ye bethinck ye, Sir, of what ye come for.

Bar.  I come to dye:  bethinck you of your Justice
And with what Sword ye strike, the edge of mallice. 
Bethinck ye of the travells I had for ye,
The throaes and grones to bring faire peace amongst ye;
Bethinck ye of the dangers I have plundgd through
And almost gripes of death, to make you glorious. 
Thinck when the Cuntry, like a Wildernes,
Brought nothing forth but desolation,
Fire, Sword and Famine; when the earth sweatt under ye
Cold dewes of blood, and Spanish flames hoong ore ye,
And every man stood markt the child of murder
And women wanted wombes to feed theis cruelties;—­
Thinck then who stept in to you, gently tooke ye
And bound your bleeding wounds up; from your faces
Wipd of the sweatts of sorrow, fed and nurssd ye;
Who brought the plowgh againe to crowne your plenty;
Your goodly meadowes who protected (Cuntrymen)
From the armd Soldiers furious marches; who
Unbard the Havens that the floating Merchant
Might clap his lynnen wings up to the windes
And back the raging waves to bring you proffit. 
Thinck through whose care you are a Nation
And have a name yet left,—­a fruitfull Nation
(Would I could say as thanckfull)—­bethinck ye of theis things
And then turne back and blush, blush [for] my ruyne.

1 Lord.  ’Tis strange how this [man b]rags; ’tis a strange impudence
Not to be pittied in his [case], not sufferd. 
You breed the peace, you bring the plowgh againe? 
You wipe the fire and blood of from this Cuntry,
And you restore hir to hir former Beuty? 
Blush in thine age, bad man; thy grave blush for thee
And scorne to hide that man that holds no Creadit. 
Beare witnes all the world that knowes our Trobles
Or ever greiv’d our plagues, what we have sufferd
And, under Heaven, by what armes we have cur’d theis,—­
Councells and frends; in which I tell thee (Barnavelt),
And through thy Impudence I here proclaime it,
Thou hadst the least and last share.  ’Tis not your face, Sir,
The greatnes of your friends, corruptly purchast,
The Crying up of your manie Services,
Which lookd into wither away like Mushrumps,
Shall scandall us.