Pen. My honour got thorow fire, thorow stubborn breaches
Thorow Batte[l]s that have been as hard to win as heaven,
Thorow death himself, in all his horrid trims,
Is gone for ever, ever, ever, Gentlemen,
And now I am left to scornfu[l] tales and laughters,
To hootings at, pointing with fingers, That's he,
That's the brave Gentleman forsook the battel,
The most wise Penyus, the disputing coward.
O my good sword, break from my side, and kill me;
Cut out the coward from my heart.
Reg. Ye are none.
Pen. He lyes that says so: by —— he lyes, lyes basely,
Baser than I have done. Come, soldiers, seek me,
I have robb'd ye of your virtues: Justice, seek me,
I have broke my fair obedience, lost: shame take me,
Take me, and swallow me, make ballads of me;
Shame, endless shame: and pray do you forsake me.
Dru. What shall we do?
Pen. Good Gentlemen forsake me:
You were not wont to be commanded. Friends, pray do it,
And do not fear; for as I am a coward
I will not hurt my self: when that mind takes me,
I'll call to you, and ask your help. I dare not.
Enter Petillius.
Petill. Good morrow, Gentlemen; where's the Tribune?
Reg. There.
Dru. Whence come ye, good Petillius?
Petill. From the General.