_ 'Tis like enough: he never lov'd his parents;
Nor can I blame him, for they ne'r lov'd him.
His Mother dream'd before she was deliver'd
That she was brought abed with a Buzzard, and ever after
She whistl'd him up to th' world: his brave clothes too
He has flung away, and goes like one of us now:
Walks with his hands in's pockets, poor and sorrowfull,
And gives the best instructions.--
_2 Sold._ And tells stories
Of honest and good people that were honour'd
And how they were remembred: and runs mad
If he but hear of any ungratefull person,
A bloudy, or betraying man--
_3 Sold._ If it be possible
That an Arch-Villain may ever be recovered,
This penitent Rascal will put hard: 'twere worth our labour
To see him once again.
_Enter_ Septimius.
_1 Sold._ He spares us that labour,
For here he comes.
_Sep._--Bless ye my honest friends,
Bless ye from base unworthy men; come not near me,
For I am yet too taking for your company.
_1 Sold._ Did I not tell ye?
_2 Sold._ What book's that?
_1 Sold._ No doubt
Some excellent Salve for a sore heart: are you
_Septimius_, that base knave, that betray'd _Pompey_?
_Sep._ I was, and am; unless your honest thoughts
Will look upon my penitence, and save me,
I must be ever Villain: O good Souldiers
You that have _Roman_ hearts, take heed of falsehood:
Take heed of blood; take heed of foul ingratitude.
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