2 Lord.  Your Romaine end, to make men
Imagine your strong conscience fortifide,
No, nor your ground Religion.  Examine all men
Branded with such fowle syns as you now dye for,
And you shall find their first stepp still Religion.
Gowrie in Scotland, ’twas his maine pretention: 
Was not he honest, too? his Cuntries father? 
Those fyery Speritts next that hatchd in England
That bloody Powder-Plot, and thought like meteors
To have flashd their Cuntryes peace out in a Moment: 
Were not their Barrells loden with Religion? 
Were not they pious, iust and zealous Subiects? 
Humble your soule for shame, and seeke not now, Sir,
To tumble from that happines even Angells
Were throwne from for their pride.  Confes, and dye well.

1 Lord.  Will ye confes your faultes?

Bar.  I come not heather To make myself guilty; yet one fault I must utter, And ’tis a great one.

2 Lord.  The greater mercy.

Bar.  I dye for saving this unthanckfull Cuntry.

1 Lord.  Play not with heaven.

Bar.  My Game’s as sure as yours is,
And with more care and inocence I play it. 
Take of my doblet; and I prethee, fellow,
Strike without feare.

Exec.  I warrant ile fitt ye.  I pray forgive me, Sir.

Bar.  Most hartely,
And heer’s my hand.  I love thee, too:  thy physick
Will quickly purge me from the worldes abuses. 
When I speak lowdest, strike.

Exec.  I shall observe ye.

Bar.  Farwell, my lords:  to all your Counsailes fortune,
Happie succes and proffit; peace to this Cuntry;
And to you all, that I have bredd like children,
Not a more faithfull father but more fortunate. 
Doe not I stay too long?

2 Lord.  Take your owne time, Sir.

Bar.  I have a wiffe, my lords, and wretched children,
Unles it please his Grace to looke upon ’em
And your good honours with your eies of favour. 
’Twill be a litle happines in my death
That they partake not with their fathers ruyns.

1 Lord.  Let not that troble ye:  they shall not find it.

Bar.  Commend my last breath to his Excellence;
Tell him the Sun he shot at is now setting,
Setting this night, that he may rise to morrow,
For ever setting.  Now let him raigne alone
And with his rayes give life and light to all men. 
May he protect with honour, fight with fortune,
And dye with generall love, an old and good Prince. 
My last petition, good Cuntrymen, forget me: 
Your memories wound deeper then your mallice,
And I forgive ye all.—­A litle stay me.—­
Honour and world I fling ye thus behind me,
And thus a naked poore man kneele to heaven: 
Be gracious to me, heare me, strengthen me. 
I come, I come, o gracious heaven! now, now,
Now, I present—­