[_Ext. Embs_. _Bred_. What thinck you now, my Lords? _Vand_. In my opinion 'Tis time he had his Sentence! _Wm_. Is it drawne? _Vand_. Yes, here it is. The peoples loves grow daungerous; In every place the whispers of his rescue; The lowd and common voice of his deservings Is floong abroad. Nor doe they handle theis things By rules of truth and reason, but their owne wills-- Their headstrong hott affections. _Bred_. Is he sent for? _Or_. Yes and will presently be here. _Bred_. Sit downe then, And now with speedy Justice let's prepare To cutt off this Imposthume. _Enter Provost & Guard, with Barnavelt_. _Vand_. 'Tis high time, Sir. _Prov_. Roome for the Prisoner! _Vand_. Bring him in; Sit downe, Sir, And take your last place with us. _Bar_. 'Tis your forme And I infringe no order. _Bred_. Mounseiur _Barnavelt_, Will ye confes yet freely your bad practises And lay those Instruments open to the World, Those bloody and bold Instruments you wrought by? Mercy may sleepe awhile but never dyes, Sir. _Bar_. I have spoake all I can, and seald that all With all I have to care for now, my Conscience. More I beseech your honours-- _Or_. Take your pleasure. _Vand_. You will give us no more lights: What this world gives you, To morrow thus we take away. Receive it. _Bar_. My Sentence? _Vand_. Yes; consider for your soule now, And so farewell. _Bar_. I humbly thanck your honours: I shall not play my last Act worst. _Bred_. Heavens mercy And a still conscience wayt upon your end, Sir. _Or_. Now guard him back againe: by the break of day You shall have order from us. _Prov_. Roome for the Prisoner!-- [_Ext. Provost and Guard, with Barnavelt_. _Or_. The world shall know that what's iust we dare doe. _Vand_. Nor shall the desperate act of _Leidenberch_ Delude what we determind. Let his Coffin Be therefore hangd up on the publique Gallowes. Th'Executioners like hungry vultures Have smelld out their imployment. _Or_. Let them have it: And all that plot against the generall good Learne from this mans example, great in age, Greater in wealth and in authoritie, But matchles in his worldly pollicie, That there is one above that do's deride The wisest counsailes that are misaplide. [_Exeunt_. SCAENA 2. _Enter Harlem, Leyden & Utrecht Executioners_. _Har_. Now hard and sharpe, for a wager, who shall doe it. Here's a Sword would doe a man's head good to be cut of with it; cures all rhumes, all Catharres, megroomes, verteegoes: presto, be gone! _Ley_. You must not carry it, _Harlem_: you are a pretty fellow and lop the lyne of life well, but weake to _Baltazar_. Give roome for _Leyden_: heer's an old Cutter, heer's one has polld more pates and neater then a dicker[204], of your Barbers; they nere need washing after. Do's not thy neck itch now to be scratchd a little with this?