_Sep._ Let all your thoughts be humble, and obedient, Love your Commanders, honour them that feed ye: Pray, that ye may be strong in honesty As in the use of arms; Labour, and diligently To keep your hearts from ease, and her base issues, Pride, and ambitious wantonness, those spoil'd me. Rather lose all your limbs, than the least honesty, You are never lame indeed, till loss of credit Benumb ye through: Scarrs, and those maims of honour Are memorable crutches, that shall bear When you are dead, your noble names to Eternity. _1 Sol._ I cry. _2 Sol._ And so do I. _3 Sol._ An excellent villain. _1 Sol._ A more sweet pious knave I never heard yet. _2 Sol._ He was happie he was Rascal, to come to this. _Enter_ Achoreus. Who's this? a Priest? _Sep._ O stay, most holy Sir! And by the Gods of _Egypt_, I conjure ye, (_Isis_, and great _Osiris_) pity me, Pity a loaden man, and tell me truly With what most humble Sacrifice I may Wash off my sin, and appease the powers that hate me? Take from my heart those thousand thousand furies, That restless gnaw upon my life, and save me. _Orestes_ bloody hands fell on his Mother, Yet, at the holy altar he was pardon'd. _Ach._ _Orestes_ out of madness did his murther, And therefore he found grace: thou (worst of all men) Out of cold blood, and hope of gain, base lucre, Slew'st thine own Feeder: come not near the altar, Nor with thy reeking hands pollute the Sacrifice, Thou art markt for shame eternal. [_Exit._ _Sep._ Look all on me, And let me be a story left to time Of blood and Infamy, how base and ugly Ingratitude appears, with all her profits, How monstrous my hop'd grace, at Court! good souldiers Let neither flattery, nor the witching sound Of high and soft preferment, touch your goodness: To be valiant, old, and honest, O what blessedness-- _1 Sold._ Dost thou want any thing? _Sep._ Nothing but your prayers. _2 Sol._ Be thus, and let the blind Priest do his worst, We have gods as well as they, and they will hear us. _3 Sol._ Come, cry no more: thou hast wep't out twenty _Pompeys_. _Enter_ Photinus, Achillas. _Pho._ So penitent? _Achil._ It seems so. _Pho._ Yet for all this We must employ him. _1 Sol._ These are the arm'd Souldier leaders: Away: and let's toth' Fort, we shall be snapt else. [_Exeunt._ _Pho._ How now? why thus? what cause of this dejection? _Achil._ Why dost thou weep? _Sep._ Pray leave me, you have ruin'd me, You have made me a famous Villain. _Pho._ Does that touch thee? _Achil._ He will be hard to win: he feels his lewdness. _Pho._ He must be won, or we shall want our right hand. This fellow dares, and knows, and must be heartned. Art thou so poor to blench at what thou hast done? Is Conscience a comrade for an old Soldier?