_Achil._ It is not that: it may be some disgrace That he takes heavily; and would be cherish'd, _Septimius_ ever scorn'd to shew such weakness. _Sep._ Let me alone; I am not for your purpose, I am now a new man. _Pho._ We have new affairs for thee, Those that would raise thy head. _Sep._ I would 'twere off, And in your bellies for the love you bear me. I'le be no more Knave: I have stings enough Already in my breast. _Pho._ Thou shalt be noble: And who dares think then that thou art not honest? _Achil._ Thou shalt command in Chief, all our strong Forces And if thou serv'st an use, must not all justifie it? _S[e]p._ I am Rogue enough. _Pho._ Thou wilt be more, and baser: A poor Rogue is all Rogues: open to all shames: Nothing to shadow him: dost thou think crying Can keep thee from the censure of the Multitude? Or to be kneeling at the altar save thee? 'Tis poor and servile: Wert thou thine own Sacrifice 'Twould seem so low, people would spit the fire out. _Achil._ Keep thy self glorious still, though ne're so stain'd, And that will lessen it, if not work it out. To goe complaining thus, and thus repenting Like a poor Girl that had betrai'd her maide[n]-head-- _Sep._ I'le stop mine ears. _Achil._ Will shew so in a Souldier, So simply, and so ridiculously, so tamely-- _Pho._ If people would believe thee, 'twere some honesty, And for thy penitence would not laugh at thee (As sure they will) and beat thee for thy poverty: If they would allow thy foolery, there were some hope. _Sep._ My foolery? _Pho._ Nay, more than that, thy misery, Thy monstrous misery. _A[c]hil._ He begins to hearken: Thy misery so great, men will not bury thee. _Sep._ That this were true! _Pho._ Why does this conquering _Cæsar_ Labour through the worlds deep Seas of toyls and troubles, Dangers, and desperate hopes? to repent afterwards? Why does he slaughter thousands in a Battel, And whip his Country with the sword? to cry for't? Thou killd'st great _Pompey_; he'l kill all his kindred, And justifie it: nay raise up _Trophies_ to it. When thou hear'st him repent, (he's held most holy too) And cry for doing daily bloody murthers, Take thou example, and go ask forgiveness, Call up the thing thou nam'st thy conscience, And let it work: then 'twill seem well _Septimius_. _Sep._ He does all this. _Achil._ Yes: and is honour'd for it; Nay call'd the honour'd _Cæsar_, so maist thou be: Thou wert born as near a Crown as he. _Sep._ He was poor. _Pho._ And desperate bloody tricks got him this credit. _Sep._ I am afraid you will once more-- _Pho._ Help to raise thee: Off with thy pining black, it dulls a Souldier, And put on resolution like a man, A noble Fate waits on thee. _Sep._ I now feel My self returning Rascal speedily. O that I had the power--