_Pen._ And thou di[d]st it nobly, Like a true man, a souldier: and I thank thee, I thank thee, good _Petillius_; thus I thank thee.
_Petill._ Since ye are so justly made up, let me tell ye, 'Tis fit ye dye indeed.
_Petill._ For say he had forgiven ye; say the peoples whispers Were tame again, the time run out for wonder, What must your own Command think, from whose Swords Ye have taken off the edges, from whose valours The due and recompence of Arms; nay, made it doubtful Wh[e]ther they knew obedience? must not these kill ye? Say they are won to pardon ye, by meer miracle Brought to forgive ye; what old valiant Souldier, What man that loves to fight, and fight for _Rome_, Will ever follow you more? dare ye know these ventures? If so, I bring ye comfort; dare ye take it?
_Petill._ If your mind serve ye, Ye may live still; but how? yet pardon me, You may outwear 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.
_Petill._ Ye shall not; y'are a Gentleman I honor, I would else flatter ye, and force ye live, Which is far baser. Hanging? 'tis a dogs death, An end for slaves.
_Petill._ Besides, the man that's hang'd, preaches his end, And sits a sign for all the world to gape at.
_Pen._ That's true: I'll take a fitter poison.
_Petill._ No, 'Tis equal ill; the death of rats and women, Lovers, and lazie boys, that fear correction, Die like a man.
_Petill._ I, If your Sword be sharp, Sir, There's nothing under heaven that's like your Sword; Your Sword's a death indeed.
_Petill._ Why _Mithridates_ was an arrant asse To dye by poison, if all _Bosphorus_ Could lend him Swords: your Sword must do the deed: 'Tis shame to dye choak'd, fame to dye and bleed.
_Pen._ Thou hast confirmed me: and, my good _Petillius_, Tell me no more I may live.
_Petill._ 'Twas my Commission; But now I see ye in a nobler way, A way to make all even.
_Pen._ Fare-well, Captain: Be a good man, and fight well: be obedient: Command thy self, and then thy men. Why shakest thou?
_Pen._ I would thou hadst, _Petillius_: I would find something to forsake the world with Worthy the man that dies: a kind of earth-quake Through all stern valors but mine own.