_Dem_. I am ashamed.

_Leo_. 'Tis ten to one, I die with ye:
The coward will not long be after ye;
I scorn to say I saw you fall, sigh for ye,
And tell a whining tale, some ten years after
To boyes and girles in an old chimney corner,
Of what a Prince we had, how bravely spirited;
How young and fair he fell: we'l all go with ye,
And ye shall see us all, like sacrifices
In our best trim, fill up the mouth of ruine.
Will this faith satisfie your folly? can this show ye
'Tis not to die we fear, but to die poorly,
To fall, forgotten, in a multitude?
If you will needs tempt fortune now she has held ye,
Held ye from sinking up.

_Dem_. Pray do not kill me,
These words pierce deeper than the wounds I suffer,
The smarting wounds of loss.

_Leo_. Ye are too tender;
Fortune has hours of loss, and hours of honour,
And the most valiant feel them both: take comfort,
The next is ours, I have a soul descries it:
The angry bull never goes back for breath
But when he means to arm his fury double.
Let this day set, but not the memorie,
And we shall find a time: How now Lieutenant?