care, most worthy,
To weigh with most deliberate circumstance
The ends of accidents, above their offers;
How to go on, and yet to save a Roman,
Whose one life is more worth in way of doing,
Than millions of these painted wasps; how, viewing,
To find advantage out; how, found, to follow it
With counsel and discretion, lest mere fortune
Should claim the victory.

Suet. ’Tis true, Petillius,
And worthily remember’d: The rule is certain,
The uses no less excellent; but where time
Cuts off occasions, danger, time and all
Tend to a present peril, ’tis required
Our swords and manhoods be best counsellors,
Our expeditions, precedents. To win is nothing,
Where Reason, Time, and Counsel are our camp-masters:
But there to bear the field, then to be conquerors,
Where pale Destruction takes us, takes us beaten,
In wants and mutinies, ourselves but handfuls,
And to ourselves our own fears, needs a new way,
A sudden and a desperate execution:
Here, how to save, is loss; to be wise, dangerous;
Only a present well-united strength,
And minds made up for all attempts, dispatch it:
Disputing and delay here cool the courage;
Necessity gives [no] time for doubts; things infinite,
According to the spirit they are preached to;
Rewards like them, and names for after-ages,
Must steel the soldier, his own shame help to arm him:
And having forced his spirit, ere he cools,
Fling him upon his enemies; sudden and swift,
Like tigers amongst foxes, we must fight for’t:
Fury must be our fortune; shame we have lost,
Spurs ever in our sides to prick us forward:
There is no other wisdom nor discretion
Due to this day of ruin, but destruction;
The soldier’s order first, and then his anger.

Dem. No doubt they dare redeem all.

Suet. Then no doubt
The day must needs be ours. That the proud woman
Is infinite in number better likes me,
Than if we dealt with squadrons; half her army
Shall choke themselves, their own swords dig their graves.
I’ll tell ye all my fears; one single valour,
The virtues of the valiant Caratach,
More doubts me than all Britain. He’s a soldier
So forged out, and so temper’d for great fortunes,
So much man thrust into him, so old in dangers,
So fortunate in all attempts, that his mere name
Fights in a thousand men, himself in millions,
To make him Roman: But no more.—Petillius,
How stands your charge?

Pet. Ready for all employments,
To be commanded too, sir.

Suet. ’Tis well govern’d;
To-morrow we’ll draw out, and view the cohorts:
I’ th’ mean time, all apply their offices.
Where’s Junius?

Pet. In’s cabin, sick o’ th’ mumps, sir.

Suet. How?

Pet. In love, indeed in love, most lamentably loving,
To the tune of Queen Dido.

Dec. Alas poor gentleman!

Suet. ’Twill make him fight the nobler. With what lady?
I’ll be a spokesman for him.

Pet. You’ll scant speed, sir.

Suet. Who is’t?

Pet. The devil’s dam, Bonduca’s daughter,
Her youngest, crack’d i’ th’ ring.

Suet. I am sorry for him:
But sure his own discretion will reclaim him;
He must deserve our anger else. Good captains,
Apply yourselves in all the pleasing forms
Ye can, unto the soldiers; fire their spirits,
And set ’em fit to run this action;
Mine own provisions shall be shared amongst ’em,
Till more come in; tell ’em, if now they conquer,
The fat of all the kingdom lies before ’em.
Their shames forgot, their honours infinite,
And want for ever banish’d. Two days hence,
Our fortunes, and our swords, and gods be for us!

[Exeunt.