_Aeci._ Not sent from _Cæsar_, I have no power to make such enemies; For as I am condemn'd, my naked sword Stands but a hatchment by me; only held To shew I was a Souldier; had not _Cæsar_ Chain'd all defence in this doom, let him die, Old as I am, and quench'd with scarrs, and sorrows, Yet would I make this wither'd Arm do wonders, And open in an enemy such wounds Mercy would weep to look on. _Pon._ Then have at ye, And look upon me, and be sure ye fear not: Remember who you are, and why you live, And what I have been to you: cry not hold, Nor think it base injustice I should kill ye. _Aeci._ I am prepar'd for all. _Pon._ For now _Æcius_, Thou shalt behold and find I was no traitor, And as I do it, bless me; die as I do.-- [Pontius _kills himself_. _Aeci._ Thou hast deceiv'd me _Pontius_, and I thank thee; By all my hopes in Heaven, thou art a _Roman_. _Pon._ To shew you what you ought to do, this is not; For slanders self would shame to find you coward, Or willing to out-live your honestie: But noble Sir, ye have been jealous of me, And held me in the rank of dangerous persons, And I must dying say it was but justice, Ye cast me from my credit; yet believe me, For there is nothing now but truth to save me, And your forgiveness, though ye held me hainous, And of a troubled spirit, that like fire Turns all to flames it meets with, ye mistook me; If I were foe to any thing, 'twas ease, Want of the Souldiers due, the Enemy The nakedness we found at home, and scorn, Children of peace, and pleasures, no regard Nor comfort for our scars, but how we got 'em, To rusty time, that eat our bodies up, And even began to prey upon our honours, To wants at home, and more than wants, abuses, To them, that when the Enemy invaded Made us their Saints, but now the sores of _Rome_; To silken flattery, and pride plain'd over, Forgetting with what wind their feathers sail, And under whose protection their soft pleasures Grow full and numberless: to this I am foe, Not to the state, or any point of duty: And let me speak but what a Souldier may, Truly I ought to be so; yet I err'd, Because a far more noble sufferer Shew'd me the way to patience, and I lost it: This is the end I die Sir; to live basely, And not the follower of him that bred me, In full account and vertue, _Pontius_ dare not, Much less to out-live what is good, and flatter. _Aeci._ I want a name to give thy vertue Souldier, For only good is far below thee _Pontius_, The gods shall find thee one; thou hast fashion'd death In such an excellent, and beauteous manner, I wonder men can live: Canst thou speak once more, For thy words are such harmony, a soul Would choose to flye to Heaven in.