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I never knew to flatter, to kneele basely And beg from him a smile owes me an honour. Ye are wreatches, poore starv'd wreatches fedd on crumbs That he flings to ye: from your owne aboundaunce Wreatched and slavish people ye are becom That feele the griping yoak and yet bow to it.
Tush, Leidenberch: thinck what thou art to doe; Not to play Niobe weeping ore her Children, Unles that Barnavelt appeere againe And chide thy dull-cold nature. Sleepe on, sweet Child, the whilst thy wreatched father Prepares him to the yron sleepe of death.
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