1 Out-l. Wherefore this halter Captain?
Rod. For this traytor.
Go, put it on him, and then tie him up.
1. Do you want a Band Sir? this is a course wearing,
'Twill fit but scurvily upon this collar;
But patience is as good as a French Pickadel.
Lop. What's his fault, Captain?
Rod. 'Tis my will he perish,
And that's his fault.
Ped. A Captain of good government.
Come Souldiers, come, ye are roughly bred, and bloody,
Shew your obedience, and the joy ye take
In executing impious commands;
Ye have a Captain seals your liberal pardons,
Be no more Christians, put religion by,
'Twill make ye cowards: feel no tenderness,
Nor let a thing call'd conscience trouble ye;
Alas, 'twill breed delay. Bear no respect
To what I seem; were I a Saint indeed,
Why should that stagger ye? you know not holiness:
To be excellent in evil, is your goodness;
And be so, 'twill become ye: have no hearts,
For fear you should repent: that will be dangerous:
For if there be a knocking there, a pricking,
And that pulse beat back to your considerations,
How ye have laid a stiff hand on Religion—
Rod. Truss him I say.
Ped. And violated faith.
Rod. Hear him not prate.
Ped. Why, what a thing will this be?
What strange confusion then will breed among ye?