_Petill._ Your leave, Sir, And I beseech ye note me; for I love ye, And bring [along] all comfort: Are we gods, Alli'd to no infirmities? are our natures More than mens natures? when we slip a little Out of the way of virtue, are we lost? Is there no medicine called Sweet mercy? _Pen._ None, _Petillius_; There is no mercy in mankind can reach me, Nor is it fit it should; I have sinn'd beyond it. _Petill._ Forgiveness meets with all faults. _Pen._ 'Tis all faults, All sins I can commit, to be forgiven: 'Tis loss of whole man in me, my discretion To be so stupid, to arrive at pardon. _Petill._ O but the General-- _Pen._ He's a brave Gentleman, A valiant, and a loving; and I dare say He would, as far as honor durst direct him, Make even with my fault, but 'tis not honest, Nor in his power: examples that may nourish Neglect and disobedience in whole bodies. And totter the estates and faiths of armies, Must not be plaid withall; nor out of pitty Make a General forget his duty: Nor dare I hope more from him than is worthy. _Petill._ What would ye do? _Pen._ Dye. _Petill._ So would sullen children, Women that want their wills, slaves, disobedient, That fear the law, die. Fie, great Captain; you A man to rule men, to have thousand lives Under your Regiment, and let your passion Betray your reason? I bring you all forgiveness, The noblest kind commends, your place, your honour. _Pen._ Prethee no more; 'tis foolish: didst not thou? By ---- thou didst, I over-heard thee, there, There where thou standst now, deliver me for rascal, Poor, dead, cold coward, miserable, wretched, If I out-liv'd this ruine? _Petill._ I? _Pen._ And thou di[d]st it nobly, Like a true man, a souldier: and I thank thee, I thank thee, good _Petillius_; thus I thank thee. _Petill._ Since ye are so justly made up, let me tell ye, 'Tis fit ye dye indeed. _Pen._ O how thou lov'st me! _Petill._ For say he had forgiven ye; say the peoples whispers Were tame again, the time run out for wonder, What must your own Command think, from whose Swords Ye have taken off the edges, from whose valours The due and recompence of Arms; nay, made it doubtful Wh[e]ther they knew obedience? must not these kill ye? Say they are won to pardon ye, by meer miracle Brought to forgive ye; what old valiant Souldier, What man that loves to fight, and fight for _Rome_, Will ever follow you more? dare ye know these ventures? If so, I bring ye comfort; dare ye take it? _Pen._ No, no, _Petillius_, no. _Petill._ If your mind serve ye, Ye may live still; but how? yet pardon me, You may outwear all too, but when? and certain There is a mercy for each fault, if tamely A man will take't upon conditions.