_Vand_. Methincks he beares not in his Countenaunce The fulnes of that grave and constant sperit, Nor in his eye appeeres that heat and quicknes He was wont to move withall.--Salute, and counsell: Let's leave him to his thoughts.
_Son_. They mind ye not: Now, as I have a soule, they looke not on ye.
_Bar_. My noble Lords, what is't appeeres upon me So ougly strange you start and fly my Companie? What plague sore have ye spide, what taynt in honour, What ill howre in my life so cleere deserving That rancks in this below your fellowships? For which of all my cares, of all my watches, My services (too many and too mightie To find rewards) am I thus recompenced, Not lookd on, not saluted, left forgotten Like one that came to petition to your honours,-- Over the shoulder sleighted?
_Bred_. Mounseiur _Barnavelt_, I am sorry that a man of your great wisdom And those rare parts that make ye lov'd and honourd, In every Princes Court highly esteemd of, Should loose so much in point of good and vertue Now in the time you ought to fix your faith fast, The creadit of your age, carelessly loose it,-- I dare not say, ambitiously--that your best frends, And those that ever thought on your example, Dare not with comon safetie now salute ye.
_Bar_. I loose in point of honour! My frends feare me! My age suspected too! now as ye are iust men Unknit this riddle.
1 _Lord_. You are doubted, strongly doubted.
_Bred_. We wish all well; and you that know how dangerous In men of lesser mark theis foule attempts are And often have bewaild 'em in the meanest, I make no doubt will meet your owne fault sodainely And chide yourself; grow faire againe and flourish In the same full esteeme ye held and favour.
_Bar_. And must I heare this sett downe for all my service? Is this the glorious mark of my deservings? Taynted and torne in honour must I perish, And must theis silver curles, ô you unthanckfull, Theis emblemes of my frostie cares and travells For you and for the State, fall with disgraces? Goe, fall before your new Prince! worship him, Fill all your throates with flattery, cry before him 'Tis he, and onely he, has truly serv'd ye! Forget me and the peace I have wrought your Cuntry; Bury my memory, raze out my name, My forty yeares endeavoures write in dust That your great Prince may blow 'em into nothing; And on my Monument (you most forgetfull) Fling all your scornes, erect an yroon-toothed envy That she may gnaw the pious stones that hides me.