_Bar_. Where? how?

_Enter Wife & Daughter_.

_Serv_. Is broken in now upon us.

_Wife_. He will not be denyde. O, my deare Husband!
The cruell Princes Captaine!

[_Captaine within_.

_Cap_. Ope the dore;
Wee'll force it els, and all that dare resist us
Wee'll put to th'Sword.

_Bar_. Open the dore: farewell, Wiffe;
Goe to the French Embassadour presently;
There's all my hope. To him make knowne my misery,
Wooe him with teares, with praires: this kisse; be happie.

_Wife_. O, we shall never see ye more!

[_Exeunt Wife and Daughter_.

_Enter Captaine & others_.

_Bar_. Away!--
You Instrument of blood, why doe ye seeke us?
I have knowne the day you have wayted like a suppliant
And those knees bended as I past. Is there no reverence
Belonging to me left now, that like a Ruffian
Rudely ye force my lodgings? No punishment
Due to a cryme of that fowle nature?

_Cap_. You must pardon me,
I have commission, Sir, for what I offer,
And from those men that are your Masters, too;
At least you'll find 'em soe. You must shift your lodging,
And presently: I have a charge to see ye
Yeild yourself quietly.

_Bar_. Goe and tell their Lordships
I will attend to-morrow. I know my time
And how to meet their mallice without guards.
This is the Prince, the cruell Prince your Master,
The thirstie Prince of this poore Life.

_Cap_. Be not vext;
That will not help ye, Sir.

_Bar_. I wilbe vext,
And such an anger I will fling amongst 'em
Shall shake the servile soules of these poore wretches
That stick his slight deservings above mine.
I charge ye draw your Guard off and disperce 'em:
I have a powre as full as theirs.

_Cap_. You'll find not;
And I must have ye with me.

_Bar_. And am I subiect
That have stood the brunt of all their busines,
And when they slept watcht to secure their slombers,--
Subiect to slights, to scornes, to taynts, to tortures?
To feed one privat mallice am I betrayd?
Myne age, myne honour and my honest dealing
Sold to the hangmans Sword?

_Cap_. I cannot stay.

_Bar_. Take me
And glory in my blood, you most ungratefull;
Feed your long bloody hopes and bath your angers
In _Barnavelts_ deservings; share my Services;
Let it be death to pitty me; to speak well of me,
The ruyn of whole famylies. When I am gon
And angry war againe shall ceize your Cuntry,
Too late remember then and cursse your follyes.
--I am ready. Farwel