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.
Bar. I dye for saving this unthanckfull Cuntry.
1 Lord. Play not with heaven.
Bar. My Game's as sure as yours is,
And with more care and inocence I play it.
Take of my doblet; and I prethee, fellow,
Strike without feare.
Exec. I warrant ile fitt ye. I pray forgive me, Sir.
Bar. Most hartely,
And heer's my hand. I love thee, too: thy physick
Will quickly purge me from the worldes abuses.
When I speak lowdest, strike.
Exec. I shall observe ye.
Bar. Farwell, my lords: to all your Counsailes fortune,
Happie succes and proffit; peace to this Cuntry;
And to you all, that I have bredd like children,
Not a more faithfull father but more fortunate.
Doe not I stay too long?