_Pen._ No, by no means: I am only thinking now, Sir, (For I am resolved to go) of a most base death, Fitting the baseness of my fault. I'll hang. _Petill._ Ye shall not; y'are a Gentleman I honor, I would else flatter ye, and force ye live, Which is far baser. Hanging? 'tis a dogs death, An end for slaves. _Pen._ The fitter for my baseness. _Petill._ Besides, the man that's hang'd, preaches his end, And sits a sign for all the world to gape at. _Pen._ That's true: I'll take a fitter poison. _Petill._ No, 'Tis equal ill; the death of rats and women, Lovers, and lazie boys, that fear correction, Die like a man. _Pen._ Why my sword then. _Petill._ I, If your Sword be sharp, Sir, There's nothing under heaven that's like your Sword; Your Sword's a death indeed. _Pen._ It shall be sharp, Sir. _Petill._ Why _Mithridates_ was an arrant asse To dye by poison, if all _Bosphorus_ Could lend him Swords: your Sword must do the deed: 'Tis shame to dye choak'd, fame to dye and bleed. _Pen._ Thou hast confirmed me: and, my good _Petillius_, Tell me no more I may live. _Petill._ 'Twas my Commission; But now I see ye in a nobler way, A way to make all even. _Pen._ Fare-well, Captain: Be a good man, and fight well: be obedient: Command thy self, and then thy men. Why shakest thou? _Petill._ I do not Sir. _Pen._ I would thou hadst, _Petillius_: I would find something to forsake the world with Worthy the man that dies: a kind of earth-quake Through all stern valors but mine own. _Petill._ I feel now A kind of trembling in me. _Pen._ Keep it still, As thou lov'st virtue, keep it. _Petill._ And brave Captain, The gr[ea]t and honoured _Penyus_. _Pen._ That again: O how it heightens me! again, _Petillius_. _Petill._ Most excellent Commander. _Pen._ Those were mine, Mine, only mine. _Petill._ They are still. _Pen._ Then to keep 'em For ever falling more, have at ye, heavens, Ye everlasting powers, I am yours: The work's done, [_Kills himself._ That neither fire nor age, nor melting envy Shall ever conquer. Carry my last words To the great General: kiss his hands and say, My soul I give to heaven, my fault to justice Which I have done upon my self: my virtue, If ever there was any in Poor _Penyus_, Made more, and happier, light on him. I faint. And where there is a foe, I wish him fortune. I dye: lye lightly on my ashes, gentle earth. _Petill._ And on my sin. Farewell, great _Peny[u]s_, [_Noise within._ The souldier is in fury. Now I am glad 'Tis done before he comes. This way, for me, The way of toile; for thee, the way of honor. [_Exit._