Ma. Sir—
Pen. Set me to lead a handful of my men
Against an hundred thousand barbarous slaves
That have marcht name by name with Romes best doers?
Serve 'em up some other meat; I'll bring no food
To stop the jaws of all those hungry wolfs.
My Regiment's mine own. I must, my language.
Enter Curius.
Cur. Penyus, where lies the Host?
Pen. Where fate may find 'em.
Pen. The Battel's lost.
Cur. So soon?
Pen. No; but 'tis lost, because it must be won:
The Britains must be Victors. Who e'r saw
A troop of bloody vultures hovering
About a few corrupted carcasses,
Let him behold the silly Roman host,
Girded with millions of fierce B[r]itains Swains,
With deaths as many as they have had hopes;
And then go thither, he that loves his shame;
I scorn my life, yet dare not lose my name.
Cur. Do not you hold it a most famous end,
When both our names and lives are sacrific'd
For Romes increase?