_Pen._ Good Gentlemen forsake me: You were not wont to be commanded. Friends, pray do it, And do not fear; for as I am a coward I will not hurt my self: when that mind takes me, I'll call to you, and ask your help. I dare not. _Enter_ Petillius. _Petill._ Good morrow, Gentlemen; where's the Tribune? _Reg._ There. _Dru._ Whence come ye, good _Petillius_? _Petill._ From the General. _Dru._ With what, for heavens sake? _Petill._ With good counsel, _Drusus_, And love, to comfort him. _Dru._ Good _Regulus_ Step to the Soldier, and allay his anger; For he is wild as winter. [_Exeunt_ Drusius _and_ Regulus. _Petill._ O, are ye there? have at ye. Sure he's dead, It cannot be he dare out-live this fortune: He must die, 'tis most necessary; men expect it; And thought of life in him, goes beyond coward. Forsake the field so basely? fie upon't: So poorly to betray his worth; so coldly To cut all credit from the soldier? sure If this man mean to live, as I should think it Beyond belief, he must retire where never The name of _Rome_, the voice of Arms, or Honour Was known or heard of yet: he's certain dead, Or strongly means it; he's no Soldier else, No _Roman_ in him; all he has done, but outside, Fought either drunk or desperate. Now he rises. How does Lord _Penyus_? _Pen._ As ye see. _Petill._ I am glad on't; Continue so still. The Lord General, The valiant General, great _Swetonius_-- _Pen._ No more of me is spoken; my name's perish'd. _Petill._ He that commanded fortune and the day By his own valour and discretion, When, as some say, _Penyus_ refused to come, But I believe 'em not, sent me to see ye. _Pen._ Ye are welcome; and pray see me; see me well, Ye shall not see me long. _Petill._ I hope so, _Penyus_; The gods defend, Sir. _Pen._ See me, and understand me: This is he Left to fill up your triumph; he that basely Whistled his honour off to th' wind; that coldly Shrunk in his politick head, when _Rome_ like reapers Sweat blood, and spirit, for a glorious harvest, And bound it up, and brought it off: that fool, That having gold and copper offer'd him, Refus'd the wealth, and took the wast: that soldier That being courted by loud fame and fortune, Labour in one hand, that propounds us gods, And in the other, glory that creates us, Yet durst doubt, and be damned. _Petill._ It was an errour. _Pen._ A foul one, and a black one. _Petill._ Yet the blackest May be washt white again. _Pen._ Never.