Leid. I must confes my errour; The beastly coldnes of the drowsy Burgers Put me past all my aymes.
Bar. O, they are sweet Jewells!
He that would put his confidence in Turnops[173]
And pickled Spratts—Come, yet resume your Courage,
Pluck up that leaden hart and looke upon mee;
Modesbargen's fledd, and what we lockt in him
Too far of from their subtle keys to open,
Yf we stand constant now to one another
And in our soules be true.
Leid. That comes too late, Sir, Too late to be redeemd: as I am unfortunate In all that's gone before, in this—
Bar. What?
Leid. O, In this, this last and greatest—
Bar. Speake.
Leid. Most miserable. I have confessd. Now let your eies shoot through me And if there be a killing anger sinck me.
Bar. Confessd!
Leid. 'Tis done: this traitor tongue has don it, This coward tongue.
Bar. Confessd!