 | The Tragedie of Bonduca |  |
Scæna Tertia.
Enter Penyus, Drusus, and Regulus.Reg.
The souldier shall not grieve ye.
Pen.
Pray ye forsake me;
look not upon me, as ye love your Honours;
I am so cold a coward, my infection
will choke your vertues like a damp else.
Dru.
Dear Captain.
Reg.
Most honour'd Sir.
Pen.
Most hated, most abhor'd;
say so, and then ye know me, nay, ye please me.
O my dear credit, my dear credit.
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Sure
his minde is dangerous.
Dru.
The good gods cure it.
Pen.
My honour got thorow fire, thorow stubborn, breaches
thorow battels that have been as hard to win as heaven,
thorow death himself, in all his horrid trims,
is gone for ever, ever, ever, Gentlemen,
and now I am left to scornful tales and laughters,
to hootings at, pointing with fingers, That's he,
that's the brave Gentleman forsook the battel,
the most wise Penyus, the disputing coward.
O my good sword, break from my side, and kill me;
cut out the coward from my heart.
Reg.
Ye are none.
Pen.
He lyes that says so: by—he lyes, lyes basely,
baser then I have done. Come, souldiers, seek me,
I have robb'd ye of your vertues: Justice, seek me,
I have broke my fair obedience, lost: shame take me,
take me, and swallow me, make ballads of me;
shame, endlesse shame: and pray do you forsake me.
Dru.
What shall we do?
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 minde 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 souldier, and allay his anger;
for he is wilde 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, 't is 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 souldier? 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 Souldier else,
no Romane 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 welcom; 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'winde; 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 waste: that souldier
that being courted by loud fame and fortune,
labour in one hand, that propounds us gods,
and in the other, glory that creats 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.
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 then mens natures? when we slip a little
out of the way of vertue, are we lost?
is there no medicine called Sweet mercie?
Pen.
None, Petillius;
there is no mercie in mankinde can reach me,
nor is it fit it should; I have sinn'd beyond it.
Petill.
Forgivenesse meets with all faults.
Pen.
'T is all faults,
all sins I can commit, to be forgiven:
't is losse of whole man in me, my discretion
to be so stupid, to arrive at pardon.
Petill.
O but the Generall—
Pen.
He 's a brave Gentleman,
a valiant, and a loving; and I dare say
he would, as far as honour durst direct him,
make even with my fault: but 't is 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 withal; nor out of pitie
make a General forget his duty:
nor dare I hope more from him then is worthy.
Petill.
What would ye do?
Pen.
Die.
Petill.
So would sullen children,
women that want their wils, 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 forgivenesse,
the noblest kinde commends, your place, your honour.
Pen.
Prethee no more; 't is 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 didst 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 die indeed.
Pen.
O how thou lovest me!
Petill.
For say he had forgiven ye; say the peoples whispers
were tame again, the time run out for wonder,
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ye have taken off the edges, from whose valours
the due and recompence of Arms; nay, made it doubtful
whether 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 minde 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.
Pen.
No, by no means: I am onely thinking now, Sir,
(for I am resolved to go) of a most base death,
sitting the basenesse of my fault. I'll hang,
Petill.
Ye shall not; y'are a Gentleman I honour,
I would else flatter ye, and force ye live,
which is far baser. Hanging? 't is a dogs death,
an end for slaves.
Pen.
The fitter for my basenesse.
Petill.
Besides, the man that's hang'd, preaches his end,
and sits a signe for all the world to gape at.
Pen.
That's true: I'll take a fitter poison.
Petill.
No,
't is 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 die by poison, if all Bosphorus
could lend him swords: your sword must do the deed:
't is shame to die choak'd, fame to die and bleed.
Pen.
Thou hast confirmed me: and, my good Petillius,
tell me no more I may live.
Petill.
'T was 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 finde something to forsake the world with
worthy the man that dies: a kinde of earth-quake
thorow all stern valours but mine own.
Petill.
I feel now
a kinde of trembling in me.
Pen.
Keep it still,
as thou lov'st vertue, keep it.
Petill.
And brave Captain,
the great and honoured Penyus.
Pen.
That again:
O how it heightens me! again, Petillius.
Petill.
Most excellent Commander.
Pen.
Those were mine,
mine, onely 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,
that neither fire, nor age, nor melting envie
shall ever conquer. Carry my last words
to the great General: kisse his hands, and say,
My soul I give to heaven, my fault to justice
which I have done upon my self: my vertue,
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 die: lie lightly on my ashes, gentle earth.
Petill.
And on my sin. Fare-well, great Penyus,
noise within.
the souldier is in fury. Now I am glad
't is done before he comes. This way, for me,
the way of toil; for thee, the way of honour.
Exit.
Enter Drusus and Regulus, with souldiers.
Sould.
Kill him, kill him, kill him.
Dru.
What will ye do?
Reg.
Good souldiers, honest souldiers.
Sould.
Kill him, kill him, kill him.
Dru.
Kill us first; we command too.
Reg.
Valiant Souldiers,
consider but whose life ye seek. O Drusus,
bid him be gone, he dies else. Shall Rome say
(ye most approved souldiers) her dear children
devoured the fathers of the fights? shall rage
and stubborn fury guide those swords to slaughter,
to slaughter of their own, to Civil ruine?
Dru.
O let 'em in: all's done, all's ended, Regulus,
Penyus has found his last eclipse. Come, Souldiers,
come, and be hold your miseries: come bravely,
full of your mutinous and bloody angers,
and here bestow your darts. O onely Romane,
O father of the Wars.
Reg.
Why stand ye stupid?
where be your killing furies? whose sword now
shall first be sheath'd in Penyus? do ye weep?
Howl out, ye wretches, ye have cause: howl ever.
Who shall now lead ye fortunate? whose valour
preserve ye to the glory of your Countrey?
who shall march out before ye, coy'd and courted
by all the mistrisses of War, care, counsel,
quick-ey'd experience, and victory twin'd to him?
who shall beget ye deeds beyond inheritance
to speak your names, and keep your honours living,
when children fail, and time that takes all with him,
build houses for ye to oblivion?
Dru.
O ye poor desperate fools: no more now, souldiers;
go home, and hang your arms up; let iust rot 'em;
and humble your stern valours to soft prayers;
for ye have sunk the frame of all your vertues;
the sun that warm'd your bloods is set for ever:
I'll kisse thy honour'd cheek. Fare well, great Penyus,
thou thunder-bolt, fare-well. Take up the body:
to morrow morning to the Camp convey it.
there to receive due Ceremonies. That eye
that blindes himself with weeping, gets most glory.
Exeunt with a dead march.
| The Tragedie of Bonduca | |