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Blush in thine age, bad man; thy grave blush for thee And scorne to hide that man that holds no Creadit. 'Tis not your face, Sir, The greatnes of your friends, corruptly purchast, The Crying up of your manie Services, Which lookd into wither away like Mushrumps, Shall scandall us. 2 Lord. Your Romaine end, to make men Imagine your strong conscience fortifide, No, nor your ground Religion.
Too many and strong proofes invyting us To creadit it. Bar. Yf you will have them such, All truth I can bring to dyvert your Lordships From your determinate opinion that way Will not remove them. Who then labourd More then the now suspected Barnavelt T'appease seditions and compound all Quarrells? Who pacified the Malcontents? Who taught you To stand upon your Guards and trust yourselves?
The opposition of those mindes that hate me, A wise-man spyns his owne fate and secures it. Nor can I, that have powre to perswade men dye, Want living frends to iustifie my Creadit. Goe in and get me meat now; invyte my frends, I am determind to be high and merry. Thou hast lost thy Charge; wee'll have another, Will; It shall goe hard els.
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.
One blow, one short peece of an howre dos this, And this cures all; maintaines no more phisitians, Restores our memories, and there's the great cure, Where, if we stay the fatall Sword of Justice, It moawes the man downe first, and next his fashion, His living name, his creadit. Leid.
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