_Pen._ Set me to lead a handful of my men Against an hundred thousand barbarous slaves That have marcht name by name with _Romes_ best doers? Serve 'em up some other meat; I'll bring no food To stop the jaws of all those hungry wolfs. My Regiment's mine own. I must, my language. _Enter_ Curius. _Cur. Penyus_, where lies the Host? _Pen._ Where fate may find 'em. _Cur._ Are they ingirt? _Pen._ The Battel's lost. _Cur._ So soon? _Pen._ No; but 'tis lost, because it must be won: The _Britains_ must be Victors. Who e'r saw A troop of bloody vultures hovering About a few corrupted carcasses, Let him behold the silly _Roman_ host, Girded with millions of fierce _B[r]itains_ Swains, With deaths as many as they have had hopes; And then go thither, he that loves his shame; I scorn my life, yet dare not lose my name. _Cur._ Do not you hold it a most famous end, When both our names and lives are sacrific'd For _Romes_ increase? _Pen._ Yes, _Curius_; but mark this too; What glory is there, or what lasting Fame Can be to _Rome_ or us? what full example, When one is smother'd with a multitude, And crouded in amongst a nameless press? Honor got out of Flint, and on their heads Whose virtues, like the Sun, exhal'd all valours, Must not be lost in mists and fogs of people, Noteless, and out of name, but rude and naked: Nor can _Rome_ task us with impossibilities, Or bid us fight against a flood: we serve her, That she may proudly say she has good soldiers, Not slaves to choak all hazards. Who but fools, That make no difference betwixt certain dying, And dying well, would fling their Fames and Fortunes Into this _Britain_-gulf, this quick-sand ruine, That sinking, swallows us, What noble hand Can find a subject fit for blood there? or what sword Room for his execution? What air to cool us, But poison'd with their blasting breaths and curses, Where we lie buried quick above the ground, And are with labouring sweat, and breathless pain, Kill'd like to slaves, and cannot kill again? _Dru. Penyus_, mark antient Wars, and know that then Captains weigh'd an hundred thousand men. _Pen. Drusius_, mark antient wisdom, and you'll find then, He gave the overthrow that sav'd his men, I must not go. _Reg._ The soldiers are desirous, Their Eagles all drawn out, Sir. _Pen._ Who drew up, _Regulus_? Ha? speak: did you whose bold Will durst attempt this? Drawn out? why, who commands, Sir? on whose warrant Durst they advance? _Reg._ I keep mine own obedience. _Dru._ 'Tis like the general cause, their love of honor, Relieving of their wants. _Pen._ Without my knowledge? Am I no more? my place but at their pleasures? Come, who did this? _Dru._ By ---- Sir, I am ignorant.