_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_.
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