Rod. O that I durst not suffer:
For all I dare do now, implies but penance.
Ped. Now do me noble right.
Rod. I'll satisfie ye;
But not by th' sword, pray you hear me, and allow me;
I have been rude; but shall I be a Monster,
And teach my Sword to hurt that that preserv'd me?
Though I be rough by nature, shall my name
Inherit that eternal stain of barbarous?
Give me an enemy, a thing that hates ye,
That never heard of yet, nor felt your goodness,
That is one main antipathy to sweetness;
And set me on, you cannot hold me Coward;
If I have ever err'd, 'thas been in hazard;
The temper of my Sword starts at your Vertue,
And will flye off, nay it will weep to light ye;
Things excellently mingled, and of pure nature,
Hold sacred Love, and peace with one another,
See how it turns.
Ped. This is a strange Conversion:
And can ye fail your Mistriss? can ye grow cold
In such a case?
Rod. Those heats that they add to us,
(O noble Pedro) let us feel 'em rightly,
And rightly but consider how they move us.
Ped. Is not their honour ours?
Rod. If they be vertuous,
And then the Sword adds nothing to their lustre,
But rather calls in question what's not doubted;
If they be not, the best Swords, and best valours
Can never fight 'em up to fame again;
No, not a Christian War, and that's held pious.
Ped. How bravely now he is tempered! I must fight,
And rather make it honourable, than angry,
I would not task those sins to me committed.
Rod. You cannot, Sir, you have cast those by: discarded 'em,
And in a noble mind, so low, and loosely
To look back, and collect such lumps, and lick 'em
Into new horrid forms again—
Ped. Still braver.