Petill. I hope so, Penyus;
The gods defend, Sir.
Pen. See me, and understand me: This is he
Left to fill up your triumph; he that basely
Whistled his honour off to th' wind; that coldly
Shrunk in his politick head, when Rome like reapers
Sweat blood, and spirit, for a glorious harvest,
And bound it up, and brought it off: that fool,
That having gold and copper offer'd him,
Refus'd the wealth, and took the wast: that soldier
That being courted by loud fame and fortune,
Labour in one hand, that propounds us gods,
And in the other, glory that creates us,
Yet durst doubt, and be damned.
Petill. It was an errour.
Pen. A foul one, and a black one.
Petill. Yet the blackest
May be washt white again.
Pen. Never.
Petill. Your leave, Sir,
And I beseech ye note me; for I love ye,
And bring [along] all comfort: Are we gods,
Alli'd to no infirmities? are our natures
More than mens natures? when we slip a little
Out of the way of virtue, are we lost?
Is there no medicine called Sweet mercy?
Pen. None, Petillius;
There is no mercy in mankind can reach me,
Nor is it fit it should; I have sinn'd beyond it.
Petill. Forgiveness meets with all faults.
Pen. 'Tis all faults,
All sins I can commit, to be forgiven:
'Tis loss of whole man in me, my discretion
To be so stupid, to arrive at pardon.