_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! ô 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. [_Exeunt_. SCAENA 2. _Enter P. of Orange, William, Bredero, Vandort, Lords, Collonells, Captaines_. _Bred_. Will your Excellence please to sitt? [_Table: Bell_. _Or_. I am prowd your Lordships So willingly restore me to that place From which the envy of the Advocate Of late hath forcd me. And that you may know, How ere his mallice live to me, all hatred Is dead in me to him, I am a Suitour He may be sent for; for, as _Barnavelt_ is A member of this body politique, I honour him, and will not scorne to yeild A strict accompt of all my Actions to him; And, though my Enemie, while he continues A frend to his owne fame and loyall to[167] The State, I love him and shall greive that he, When he falls from it must deserve my pitty. _Vand_. This disposition in your Excellence Do's well becom you, but would wrong our iudgements To call one as a partner to these counsailes That is suspected, and ev'n then when all His dark designes and deepest purposes Are to be sifted. _Bred_. It were most unfit, And therefore we entreat your Highnes to[167] Presse it no further. _Or_. My good lords, your pardon; You are your owne disposers.--Gentlemen, I shall a while entreat ye to forbeare The troble that you put upon yourselves In following me. I can need no defence here, Being left among these whose grave counsailes ever Have lookd out for my safetie. 'Tis your pleasure And therefore I embrace it.