2 Gent. Hang up a true man,
Because 'tis possible he may be thievish!
Alas, is this good Justice?
Pet. I know as certain
As day must come again, as clear as truth,
And open as belief can lay it to me,
That I am basely wrong'd, wrong'd above recompence;
Maliciously abus'd, blasted for ever
In name and honour, lost to all remembrance,
But what is smear'd, and shameful; I must kill him,
Necessity compells me.
1 Gent. But think better.
Pet. There is no other cure left; yet witness with me,
All that is fair in man, all that is noble,
I am not greedy of this life I seek for,
Nor thirst to shed mans blood, and would 'twere possible,
I wish it with my soul, so much I tremble
To offend the sacred Image of my Maker,
My Sword could only kill his Crimes; no, 'tis Honour,
Honour, my noble friends, that Idol, Honour,
That all the world now worships, not Petruchio
Must do this Justice.
Ant. Let it once be done,
And 'tis no matter, whether you, or honour,
Or both, be accessary.
2 Gent. Do you weigh, Petruchio,
The value of the person, power, and greatness,
And what this spark may kindle?
Pet. To perform it,
So much I am ty'd to Reputation,
And Credit of my house, let it raise wild-fires,
That all this Dukedom smoak, and storms that toss me
Into the waves of everlasting ruine,
Yet I must through; if ye dare side me.
Ant. Dare?
Pet. Y'are friends indeed, if not.
2 Gent. Here's none flyes from you,
Do it in what design ye please, we'll back ye.