Petill. For say he had forgiven ye; say the peoples whispers
Were tame again, the time run out for wonder,
What must your own Command think, from whose Swords
Ye have taken off the edges, from whose valours
The due and recompence of Arms; nay, made it doubtful
Wh[e]ther they knew obedience? must not these kill ye?
Say they are won to pardon ye, by meer miracle
Brought to forgive ye; what old valiant Souldier,
What man that loves to fight, and fight for Rome,
Will ever follow you more? dare ye know these ventures?
If so, I bring ye comfort; dare ye take it?
Pen. No, no, Petillius, no.
Petill. If your mind serve ye,
Ye may live still; but how? yet pardon me,
You may outwear all too, but when? and certain
There is a mercy for each fault, if tamely
A man will take't upon conditions.
Pen. No, by no means: I am only thinking now, Sir,
(For I am resolved to go) of a most base death,
Fitting the baseness of my fault. I'll hang.
Petill. Ye shall not; y'are a Gentleman I honor,
I would else flatter ye, and force ye live,
Which is far baser. Hanging? 'tis a dogs death,
An end for slaves.
Pen. The fitter for my baseness.
Petill. Besides, the man that's hang'd, preaches his end,
And sits a sign for all the world to gape at.
Pen. That's true: I'll take a fitter poison.
Petill. No,
'Tis equal ill; the death of rats and women,
Lovers, and lazie boys, that fear correction,
Die like a man.
Pen. Why my sword then.