_Bar_. There can be no attonement: I know the Prince: _Vandort_ is fleshd upon me, And _Bredero_, though he be of noble nature, Dare not step in. Wher's my Son _William_? His Goverment is gon, too; and the Soldier, O, the falce Soldier! What! wouldst thou have a husband? Goe, marry an English Captaine, and hee'll teach thee How to defy thy father and his fortune.-- I cannot eate; I have no stomach, Girle. _Daught_. Good Sir, be patient. _Bar_. No news from _Grotius_? No flow of frends there? _Hoger-beets_ lye still, too? --Away: ile come anon. _Daught_. Now heaven preserve ye! [_Exit_. _Bar_. A gentle Girle: why should not I pray, too? I had nere more need. When I am sett and gon, What understanding can they stick up then To fill the place I bore? None, not a man: To traffick with Great Princes? none: to deale With all the trobles of the war? None, certaine, no man: To bring in daylie treasure? I know no man; They cannot pick a man made up to serve 'em. Why should I feare then? doubt, and fly before Myne owne weake thoughts?--Art thou there, too? _Enter Wife[184] and Daughter_. _Wife_. Fy, fy, Sir: Why do you suffer theis sad dead retirements To choake your speritts? You have studied long enough To serve the uses of those men that scorne ye; 'Tis time you take your ease now. _Bar_. I shall shortly; An everlasting ease, I hope. _Wife_. Why weep ye, My deere Sir? speak. _Bar_. Never till now unhappie! Thy fruit there and my fall ripen togeather And fortune gives me heires of my disgraces. _Wife_. Take nobler thoughts. _Bar_. What will becom of thee, Wiffe, When I am gon? When they have gorgd their envies With what I have, what honest hand in pitty Will powre out to thy wants? What noble eye Will looke upon my Children strooke with miserie And say 'you had a father that I honourd; For his sake be my Brothers and my Sisters.' _Wife_. There cannot be such crueltie. _Bar_. I hope not; Yet what so confident Sailour that heares the Sea rore, The winds sing lowd and dreadfull, the day darkend, But he will cry 'a storme'! downe with his Canvas And hull, expecting of that horrid feavour? _Enter Son_. --How now? What newes? _Son_. Plucke up your hart, Sir, fairely And wither not away thus poorely from us; Be now secure: the myst ye feard is vanishd,-- _Leidenberch's_ dead. _Bar_. Dead? _Son_. Killd himself; his owne hand Most bravely was his Justice; nor left behind him One peece of paper to dishonour ye. They are all to seeke now for their Accusations. _Bar_. And is he dead? so timely, too? so truly? Speak't againe, _Will_? _Son_. Hee's dead, Sir, if I live here. _Bar_. And his owne hand? _Son_. His hand and will performd it.