Dem. The self-same I.
Petill. And I as free as any;
As careless of my flesh, of that we call life,
So I may lose it nobly; as indifferent
As if it were my diet. Yet, noble General,
It was a wisdom learn'd from you; I learn'd it,
And worthy of a Soldiers care, most worthy,
To weigh with most deliberate circumstance
The ends of accidents, above their offers;
How to go on and get, to save a Roman,
Whose one life is more worth in way of doing,
Than millions of these painted wasps; how viewing
To find advantage out; how; how, found, to follow it
With counsel and discretion, lest meer fortune
Should claim the victory.
Sw[e]t. 'Tis true, Petillius,
And worthily remembred: the rule's certain,
Their uses no less excellent: but where time
Cuts off occasio[n]s, danger, time and all
Tend to a present peril, 'tis required
Our Swords and Manhoods be best counsellors,
Our expeditions, presidents. To win, is nothing,
Where reason, time and counsel are our Camp-masters:
But there to bear the field, then to be conquerors,
Where pale destruction takes us, takes us beaten,
I[n] wants, and mutinies, our selves but handfuls,
And to our selves, our own fears, needs a new way,
A sudden and a desperate execution:
Here, how to save, is loss; to be wise, dangerous;
Only a present well-united strength,
And minds made up for all attempts, dispatch it:
Disputing and delay here, cools the courage;
Necessity gives time for doubts; things infinite,
According to the spirit they are preach'd to,
Rewards like them; and names for after-ages,
Must steel the Soldier; his own shame help to arm him;
And having forc'd his spirit, e'r he cools,
Fling him upon his enemies; sudden and swift,
Like Tigers amongst Foxes, we must fight for't:
Fury must be our Fortune; shame we have lost,
Spurs ever in our sides to prick us forward:
There is no other wisdom nor discretion
Due to this day of ruine, but destruction;
The Soldiers order first, and then his anger.
Dem. No doubt they dare redeem all.
Swet. Then no doubt
The day must needs be ours. That the proud Woman
Is infinite in number, better likes me,
Than if we dealt with squadrons: half her Army
Shall choak themselves, their own swords dig their graves.
I'll tell ye all my fears, one single valour,
The virtues of the valiant Caratach
More doubts me than all Britain: he's a Soldier
So forg'd out, and so temper'd for great fortunes,
So much man thrust into him, so old in dangers,
So fortunate in all attempts, that his mere name
Fights in a thousand men, himself in millions,
To make him Roman. But no more. Petillius,
How stands your charge?
Petill. Ready for all employments,
To be commanded too, Sir.
Swet. 'Tis well govern'd;
To morrow we'll draw out, and view the Cohorts:
I' th' mean time, all apply their offices.
Where's Junius?
Petill. In's Cabin,
Sick o'th' mumps, Sir.
Swet. How?
Petill. In love, indeed in love, most lamentably loving,
To the tune of Queen Dido.