_Bar_. Now to be patient Were to be treacherous: trust once his counsaile That never yet hath faild you. Make him know That any limb of this our reverend Senate In powre is not beneath him. As we sitt Ile yeild you further reasons; i'the meane time Commaund him by the Officers of the Court Not to presse in untill your Lordships pleasure Be made knowne to him. _Vand_. 'Tis most requisite. _Leid_. And for the honour of the Court. _Vand_. Goe on; You have my voice. _Bre_. And mine;--yet wee'll proceed As judgement shall direct us. _Vand_. 'Tis my purpose. _Bar_. In this disgrace I have one foote on his neck; Ere long Ile set the other on his head And sinck him to the Center. _Leid_. Looke to the dores there. [_Exeunt_. SCAENA 3. _Enter[150] Pr. of Orange, Gra: William, Collonells & Captaines_. _Or_. I, now methincks I feele the happynes Of being sproong from such a noble father, That sacrifizd his honour, life and fortune For his lov'd Cuntry. Now the blood and kindred Of _Horne_ and _Egmont_ (Memories great Martires), That must outlive all _Alva's_ Tirranies And when their Stories told ev'n shake his ashes, Methincks through theis vaines now, now at this instant, I feele their Cuntries losse; I feele[151] too-- _Will_. All feele sencibly, And every noble hart laments their miseries, And every eie, that labours not with mallice, Sees your great services and through what dangers You have raisd those noble speritts monuments. _Or_. What I have don I look not back to magnifie; My Cuntry calld me to it. What I shall yet doe, With all the industrie and strength I have lent me And grace of heaven to guid, so it but satisfie The expectation of the State commaunds me And in my Cuntries eye appeere but lovely, I shall sitt downe, though old and bruizd yet happie; Nor can the bitter and bold tounge of mallice, That never yet spoke well of faire deservings, With all hir course aspersions floong upon me Make me forsake my dutie, touch or shake me Or gaine so much upon me as an anger, Whilst here I hold me loyall. Yet believe, Gentlemen, Theis wrongs are neither few nor slight, nor followed By liberall tongues provokd by want or wine, For such were to be smild at and so slighted, But by those men, and shot so neer mine honour I feare my person too; but, so the State suffer not, I am as easie to forget. _Will_. Too easie; And that feeds up their mallice to a Monster. You are the arme oth' war, the Soldiers sperit; The other but dead stories, you the dooer. _Col_. It stands not with the honour you have won, Sir, Still built upon and betterd. _Or_. No more, good Collonell. _Col_. The love the Soldier beares you to give way thus! To have your actions consturd, scornd and scoffd at By such malignant soules! you are yourself, Sir, And master of more mindes that love and honour ye.[152] _Will_. Yf you would see it; but take through the mallice The evill intended now, now bent upon ye.