Pen. Oh, how thou lovest me!

Pet. For say he had forgiven you, say the people’s whispers
Were tame again, the time run out for wonder,
What must your own command think, from whose swords
You have taken off the edges, from whose valours
The due and recompense of arms; nay, made it doubtful
Whether they knew obedience? must not these kill you?
Say they are won to pardon you, by mere miracle
Brought to forgive you, what old valiant soldier,
What man that loves to fight, and fight for Rome,
Will ever follow you more? Dare you know these ventures?
If so, I bring you comfort; dare you take it?

Pen. No, no, Petillius, no.

Pet. If your mind serve you,
You may live still; but how?—yet pardon me:
You may out-wear all too;—but when?—and certain
There is a mercy for each fault, if tamely
A man will take’t upon conditions.

Pen. No, by no means: I am only thinking now, sir
(For I am resolved to go), of a most base death,
Fitting the baseness of my fault. I’ll hang.

Pet. You shall not: you are a gentleman I honour,
I would else flatter you, and force you live,
Which is far baser. Hanging? ’tis a dog’s death,
And end for slaves.

Pen. The fitter for my baseness.

Pet. Besides, the man that’s hanged preaches his end,
And sits a sign for all the world to gape at.

Pen. That’s true; I’ll take a fitter; poison.

Pet. No,
’Tis equal ill; the death of rats and women,
Lovers, and lazy boys, that fear correction;
Die like a man.

Pen. Why, my sword, then.

Pet. Ay, if your sword be sharp, sir.
There’s nothing under Heaven that’s like your sword;
Your sword’s a death indeed!

Pen. It shall be sharp, sir.

Pet. Why, Mithridates was an arrant ass
To die by poison, if all Bosphorus
Could lend him swords: Your sword must do the deed:
’Tis shame to die chok’d, fame to die and bleed.

Pen. Thou hast confirm’d me; and, my good Petillius,
Tell me no more I may live.

Pet. ’Twas my commission;
But now I see you in a nobler way,
A way to make all even.

Pen. Farewell, captain!
Be a good man, and fight well: be obedient;
Command thyself, and then thy men. Why shakest
thou?

Pet. I do not, sir.

Pen. I would thou hadst, Petillius!
I would find something to forsake the world with,
Worthy the man that dies: A kind of earthquake
Through all stern valours but mine own.

Pet. I feel now
A kind of trembling in me.

Pen. Keep it still;
As thou lovest virtue, keep it.

Pet. And, brave captain,
The great and honour’d Penius!—