_Or_. Stay, I commaund ye; He that puts forward first to this wild action Has lost my love and is becom mine Enemy, My mortall enemie. Put up your weapons, You draw 'em against order, duty, faith; And let me die ere render such examples. The men you make so meane, so slight account of, And in your angers prise, not in your honours, Are Princes, powerfull Princes, mightie Princes; That daylie feed more men of your great fashion And noble ranck, pay and maintaine their fortunes, Then any monarch _Europe_ has: and for this bountie, If ye consider truly, Gentlemen, And honestly, with thankfull harts remember, You are to pay them back againe your service: They are your masters, your best masters, noblest, Those that protect your states, hold up your fortunes; And for this good you are to sacrifize Your thancks and duties, not your threats and angers. I and all Soldiers els that strike with their armes, And draw from them the meanes of life and honour, Are doble tyde in faith to observe their pleasures. _Col_. A Prince of rare humanitie and temper. Sir, as you teach us armes, you man our minds, too, With civill precepts, making us true Soldiers, Then worthie to receive a trust from others When we stand masters of our owne discretions. _Enter Barnavelt, Modesbargen, Leidenberch, Grotius Bredero, Vandort & Hogerbeets_. _Will_. Your good and great example tyes us all, Sir. _Cap_. The Councell's broken up. _Or_. My noble Lords, Let it not seeme displeasing to your wisdomes, I humbly ask in what I have offended, Or how suspected stand, or with what cryme blotted, That this day from your fellowship, your councell, My Cuntries care and where I owe most service, Like a man perishd in his worth I am exilde. _Bar_. Your Grace must know we cannot wait attendaunce, Which happely you looke for. _Or_. Wayt, my lords! _Bar_. Nor what we shall designe for the States comfort Stay your deliberate crosses. We know you are able, And every way a wise Prince fitt for counsell; But I must tell ye, Sir, and tell ye truly, The Soldier has so blowne ye up, so swelld ye And those few services you call your owne, That now our commendations are too light gales, Too slacke and emptie windes, to move your worthes; And trumpets of your owne tongue and the Soldiers Now onely fill your sailes. _Bre_. Be not so bitter. _Bar_. We mix with quiet speritts, staid and temperate, And those that levell at not great but good ends Dare hold us their Companions, not their Servants, And in that ranck be ready to supply us. Your Grace is growne too haughtie.