her 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?

_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 she