Petill. I, If your Sword be sharp, Sir,
There's nothing under heaven that's like your Sword;
Your Sword's a death indeed.
Pen. It shall be sharp, Sir.
Petill. Why Mithridates was an arrant asse
To dye by poison, if all Bosphorus
Could lend him Swords: your Sword must do the deed:
'Tis shame to dye choak'd, fame to dye and bleed.
Pen. Thou hast confirmed me: and, my good Petillius,
Tell me no more I may live.
Petill. 'Twas my Commission;
But now I see ye in a nobler way,
A way to make all even.
Pen. Fare-well, Captain:
Be a good man, and fight well: be obedient:
Command thy self, and then thy men. Why shakest thou?
Petill. I do not Sir.
Pen. I would thou hadst, Petillius:
I would find something to forsake the world with
Worthy the man that dies: a kind of earth-quake
Through all stern valors but mine own.
Petill. I feel now
A kind of trembling in me.
Pen. Keep it still,
As thou lov'st virtue, keep it.