_Ach._ I'le tell thee truely,
And if thou ever yet heard'st tell of honour,
I'le make thee blush: It was thy General's;
That mans that fed thee once, that mans that bred thee,
The air thou breath'dst was his; the fire that warm'd thee,
From his care kindled ever, nay, I'le show thee,
(Because I'le make thee sensible of the business,
And why a noble man durst not touch at it)
There was no piece of Earth, thou putst thy foot on
But was his conquest; and he gave thee motion.
He triumph'd three times, who durst touch his person?
The very walls of _Rome_ bow'd to his presence,
Dear to the Gods he was, to them that fear'd him
A fair and noble Enemy. Didst thou hate him?
And for thy love to _Cæsar_, sought his ruine?
Arm'd in the red _Pharsalian_ fields, _Septimius_,
Where killing was in grace, and wounds were glorious,
Where Kings were fair competitours for honour,
Thou shouldst have come up to him, there have fought him,
There, Sword to Sword.

_Sep._ I kill'd him on commandment,
If Kings commands be fair, when you all fainted,
When none of you durst look--

_Ach._ On deeds so barbarous,
What hast thou got?

_Sep._ The Kings love, and his bounty,
The honour of the service, which though you rail at,