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My noble Lords, Let it not seeme displeasing to your wisdomes, I humbly ask in what I have offended, Or how suspected stand, or with what cryme blotted, That this day from your fellowship, your councell, My Cuntries care and where I owe most service, Like a man perishd in his worth I am exilde. Bar. Your Grace must know we cannot wait attendaunce, Which happely you looke for. Or. Wayt, my lords!
Bar. Why? Son. For certaine perishd. Utrecht is taken in, Modesbargen fled, And Leidenberge a Servant to their pleasures, A prisoner, Sir. Bar. Ha! Son. 'Tis too true. 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.
Spoake like a mother. Tho. Madam, The surplusage of love that's in my breast Must needs have vent in gratulation Of your full ioyes. Would you mind your promise, And make me fortunate in your love! Lady. Sir, I have vowd, Since by my meanes my daughter and her love Perishd unhappily, to seclude my selfe From mans Society. Tho. Weele cancell That obligation quickly.
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