Col.  A Prince of rare humanitie and temper. 
Sir, as you teach us armes, you man our minds, too,
With civill precepts, making us true Soldiers,
Then worthie to receive a trust from others
When we stand masters of our owne discretions.

    Enter Barnavelt, Modesbargen, Leidenberch, Grotius
    Bredero, Vandort & Hogerbeets.

Will.  Your good and great example tyes us all, Sir.

Cap.  The Councell’s broken up.

Or.  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.  Nor what we shall designe for the States comfort
Stay your deliberate crosses.  We know you are able,
And every way a wise Prince fitt for counsell;
But I must tell ye, Sir, and tell ye truly,
The Soldier has so blowne ye up, so swelld ye
And those few services you call your owne,
That now our commendations are too light gales,
Too slacke and emptie windes, to move your worthes;
And trumpets of your owne tongue and the Soldiers
Now onely fill your sailes.

Bre.  Be not so bitter.

Bar.  We mix with quiet speritts, staid and temperate,
And those that levell at not great but good ends
Dare hold us their Companions, not their Servants,
And in that ranck be ready to supply us. 
Your Grace is growne too haughtie.

Leid.  Might it please you
But thinck, Sir, of our honest services
(I dare not terme them equall) and but waigh well,
In which I know your Grace a perfect master,
Your judgment excellent, and then but tell us
And truly (which I know your goodnes will doe)
Why should we seeme so poore, so undertrodden,
And though not trusted with the State and Councell,
Why so unable vallued.  Pardon, great Sir,
If those complaine who feele the waight of envy,
If such poore trod on wormes make show to turne againe. 
Nor is it we that feele, I hope, nor you, Sir,
That gives the cullour of this difference: 
Rumour has many tongues but few speak truth: 
We feele not onely,—­if we did ’twere happie—­
Our Cuntry, Sir, our Cuntrie beares the blow too;
But you were ever noble.

Or.  Good my Lords,
Let it be free your Servant, chargd in mallice,
If not fling of his crymes, at least excuse ’em
To you my great correcter.  Would to heaven, Sir,
That syn of pride and insolence you speake of,
That pufft up greatnes blowne from others follyes
Were not too neere akin to your great Lordship
And lay not in your bosom, your most deere one. 
You taint me, Sir, with syns concerne my manners,—­
If I have such Ile studdy to correct ’em;
But, should I taint you, I should charge ye deeper: 
The cure of those would make ye shrinck and shake, too,
—­Shake of your head.