_Bar_. I come to dye: bethinck you of your Justice And with what Sword ye strike, the edge of mallice. Bethinck ye of the travells I had for ye, The throaes and grones to bring faire peace amongst ye; Bethinck ye of the dangers I have plundgd through And almost gripes of death, to make you glorious. Thinck when the Cuntry, like a Wildernes, Brought nothing forth but desolation, Fire, Sword and Famine; when the earth sweatt under ye Cold dewes of blood, and _Spanish_ flames hoong ore ye, And every man stood markt the child of murder And women wanted wombes to feed theis cruelties;-- Thinck then who stept in to you, gently tooke ye And bound your bleeding wounds up; from your faces Wipd of the sweatts of sorrow, fed and nurssd ye; Who brought the plowgh againe to crowne your plenty; Your goodly meadowes who protected (Cuntrymen) From the armd Soldiers furious marches; who Unbard the Havens that the floating Merchant Might clap his lynnen wings up to the windes And back the raging waves to bring you proffit. Thinck through whose care you are a Nation And have a name yet left,--a fruitfull Nation (Would I could say as thanckfull)--bethinck ye of theis things And then turne back and blush, blush [for] my ruyne. 1 _Lord_. 'Tis strange how this [man b]rags; 'tis a strange impudence Not to be pittied in his [case], not sufferd. You breed the peace, you bring the plowgh againe? You wipe the fire and blood of from this Cuntry, And you restore hir to hir former Beuty? Blush in thine age, bad man; thy grave blush for thee And scorne to hide that man that holds no Creadit. Beare witnes all the world that knowes our Trobles Or ever greiv'd our plagues, what we have sufferd And, under Heaven, by what armes we have cur'd theis,-- Councells and frends; in which I tell thee (_Barnavelt_), And through thy Impudence I here proclaime it, Thou hadst the least and last share. 'Tis not your face, Sir, The greatnes of your friends, corruptly purchast, The Crying up of your manie Services, Which lookd into wither away like Mushrumps, Shall scandall us. 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.