_Petill._ To th' purpose? what's that? half a Cow and Garlick? Ye Rogues, my company eat Turf, and talk not; Timber they can digest, and fight upon't; Old matts, and mud with spoons, rare meats. Your shooes slaves? Dare ye cry out for hunger, and those extant? Suck your Sword-hilts, ye slaves, if ye be valiant, Honor will make 'em march-pain: _to the purpose_? A grievous penance. Dost thou see that Gentleman, That melancholly Monsieur? _Jun._ Pray ye, _Petillius_. _Pet._ He has not eat these three weeks. _2 Sold._ 'Has drunk the more then. _3 Sold._ And that's all one. _Petill._ Nor drunk nor slept these two months. _Jud._ Captain, we do beseech yo[u] as poor Soldiers, Men that have seen good days, whose mortal stomachs May sometime feel afflictions. _Jun._ This, _Petillius_, Is not so nobly done. _Petill._ 'Tis common profit; Urge him to th' point, he'll find you out a food That needs no teeth nor stomach; a strange furmity Will feed ye up as fat as hens i'th' foreheads, And make ye fight like _Fichocks_, to him. _Jud._ Captain. _Jun._ Do you long to have your throats cut? _Petill._ See what metal It makes in him: two meals more of this melancholly, And there lies _Caratach_. _Jud._ We do beseech ye. _2 Sold._ Humbly beseech your valour. _Jun._ Am I only Become your sport _Petillius_? _Jud._ But to render In way of general good, in preservation. _Jun._ Out of my thoughts, ye slaves. _4 Sold._ Or rather pity. _3 Sold._ Your warlike remedy against the maw-worms. _Jud._ Or notable receipt to live by nothing. _Petill._ Out with your Table-books. _Jun._ Is this true friendship? And must my killing-griefs make others _May_-games? Stand from my swords point, slaves, your poor starv'd spirits Can make me no oblations; else, O love, Thou proudly blind destruction, I would send thee Whole _Hecatom[b]s_ of hearts, to bleed my sorrows. _Jud._ Alas, he lives by love, Sir. [_Exit_ Junius.