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My goverment of Barghen is disposd of; Their anger now against us all profest, And in your ruyn all must fall. Bar. A prisoner! Modesbargen fledd! I am glad he is scapt their fingers. Now if the devill had but this Leidenberge I were safe enough. What a dull foole was I, A stupid foole, to wrap up such a secreat In a sheepes hart! ô I could teare my flesh now And beat my leaden braines! Son.
He lookes me blind now. Bar. How I could cursee thee, foole, despise thee, spurne thee, But thou art a thing not worthie of mine anger. A frend! a dog: a whore had byn more secreat, A common whore a closer Cabinet. Confest! upon what safety, thou trembling aspyn, Upon what hope? Is there ought left to buoy us But our owne confidence?
Count Bentham, The Archbishop of Cullen, Duke of Brunswick, Grave Embden: theis from Citties, theis from Provinces; Petitions theis; theis from the States for places. Have I held correspondence with theis Princes, And had their loves, the molding of their busines, Trusted with their most secreat purposes? Of every State acquainted with the misteries?
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