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.