_Rod._ You should have seen this Sword, how e're you slight it, And felt it too; sharper than sorrow felt it, In execution quicker than thy scorns; Thou should'st have seen all this, and shrunk to see it. Then like a Gentleman I would have us'd thee, And given thee the fair fortune of thy being, Then with a Souldiers arm I had honour'd thee; But since thou stealst upon me like a Spie, And thief-like thinkst that holy case shall carry thee Through all my purposes, and so betray me, Base as the act, thy end be, and I forget thee. _Ped._ What poor evasions thou buildst on, to abuse me! The goodness of a man ne'r taught these principles. I come a Spie? durst any noble spirit Put on this habit, to become a Traitor? Even in an Enemy shew me this antipathy Where there is _Christian_ faith, and this not reverenced: I come a Spie? no _Roderigo_, no, A hater of thy person, a maligner? So far from that, I brought no malice with me, But rather when I meet thee, tears to soften thee; When I put on this habit, I put off All fires, all angers, all those starts of youth That clapt too rank a bias to my being, And drew me from the right mark all should aim at; In stead of stubborn steel, I put on prayers; For rash and hasty heats, a sweet repentance: Long weary steps, and vows, for my vain-glories. O _Roderigo_. _Rod._ If thy tongue could save thee, Prating be thy bail, thou hast a rare benefit. Souldiers, come out, and bring a halter with ye; I'le forgive your holy habit, Sir, but I'le hang you. _Enter Out-laws_, Lope[z], Jaques. _1 Out-l._ Wherefore this halter Captain? _Rod._ For this traytor. Go, put it on him, and then tie him up. _1._ Do you want a Band Sir? this is a course wearing, 'Twill fit but scurvily upon this collar; But patience is as good as a _French_ Pickadel. _Lop._ What's his fault, Captain? _Rod._ 'Tis my will he perish, And that's his fault. _Ped._ A Captain of good government. Come Souldiers, come, ye are roughly bred, and bloody, Shew your obedience, and the joy ye take In executing impious commands; Ye have a Captain seals your liberal pardons, Be no more _Christians_, put religion by, 'Twill make ye cowards: feel no tenderness, Nor let a thing call'd conscience trouble ye; Alas, 'twill breed delay. Bear no respect To what I seem; were I a Saint indeed, Why should that stagger ye? you know not holiness: To be excellent in evil, is your goodness; And be so, 'twill become ye: have no hearts, For fear you should repent: that will be dangerous: For if there be a knocking there, a pricking, And that pulse beat back to your considerations, How ye have laid a stiff hand on Religion-- _Rod._ Truss him I say. _Ped._ And violated faith. _Rod._ Hear him not prate.