Pet. I hope so, Penius.—

[Aside.

The gods defend, sir!

Pen. See me and understand me: This is he,
Left to fill up your triumph; he that basely
Whistled his honour off to th’ wind, that coldly
Shrunk in his politic head, when Rome, like reapers,
Sweat blood and spirit for a glorious harvest,
And bound it up, and brought it off; that fool,
That having gold and copper offered him,
Refused the wealth, and took the waste; that soldier,
That being courted by loud Fame and Fortune,
Labour in one hand that propounds us gods,
And in the other Glory that creates us,
Yet durst doubt and be damned!

Pet. It was an error.

Pen. A foul one, and a black one.

Pet. Yet the blackest
May be washed white again.

Pen. Never.

Pet. Your leave, sir;
And I beseech you note me, for I love you,
And bring along all comfort: Are we gods,
Allied to no infirmities? are our natures
More than men’s natures? When we slip a little
Out of the way of virtue, are we lost?
Is there no medicine called sweet mercy?

Pen. None, Petillius;
There is no mercy in mankind can reach me,
Nor is it fit it should; I have sinned beyond it.

Pet. Forgiveness meets with all faults.

Pen. ’Tis all faults,
All sins I can commit, to be forgiven;
’Tis loss of whole man in me, my discretion,
To be so stupid, to arrive at pardon!

Pet. Oh, but the general—

Pen. He is a brave gentleman,
A valiant, and a loving; and I dare say
He would, as far as honour durst direct him,
Make even with my fault; but ’tis not honest
Nor in his power: Examples that may nourish
Neglect and disobedience in whole bodies,
And totter the estates and faiths of armies,
Must not be played withal; nor out of pity
Make a general forget his duty;
Nor dare I hope more from him than is worthy.

Pet. What would you do?

Pen. Die.

Pet. So would sullen children,
Women that want their wills, slaves disobedient,
That fear the law. Die? Fy, great captain! you
A man to rule men, to have thousand lives
Under your regiment, and let your passion
Betray your reason? I bring you all forgiveness,
The noblest kind commends, your place, your honour—

Pen. Pr’ythee no more; ’tis foolish. Didst not thou
(By Heaven, thou didst; I overheard thee, there,
There where thou stand’st now) deliver me for rascal,
Poor, dead, cold, coward, miserable, wretched,
If I out- lived this ruin?

Pet. I?

Pen. And thou didst it nobly,
Like a true man, a soldier; and I thank thee,
I thank thee, good Petillius, thus I thank thee!

Pet. Since you are so justly made up, let me tell you,
’Tis fit you die indeed.