PITHIAS. My Damon, the gods forbid but we should agree; Therefore agree to this, let me perform the promise made for thee. Let me die for thee: do me not that injury, Both to break my promise, and to suffer me to see thee die, Whom so dearly I love: this small request grant me, I shall never ask thee more, my desire is but friendly. Do me this honour, that fame may report triumphantly, That Pithias for his friend Damon was contented to die.
DAMON. That you were contented for me to die, fame cannot deny; Yet fame shall never touch me with such a villainy, To report that Damon did suffer his friend Pithias for him guiltless to die; Therefore content thyself, the gods requite thy constant faith, None but Damon’s blood can appease Dionysius’ wrath. And now, O mighty king, to you my talk I convey; Because you gave me leave my worldly things to stay, To requite that good turn, ere I die, for your behalf this I say, Although your regal state dame Fortune decketh so, That like a king in worldly wealth abundantly ye flow, Yet fickle is the ground whereon all tyrants tread, A thousand sundry cares and fears do haunt their restless head: No trusty band, no faithful friends do guard thy hateful state, And why? whom men obey for deadly fear, sure them they deadly hate. That you may safely reign, by love get friends, whose constant faith Will never fail, this counsel gives poor Damon at his death: Friends are the surest guard for kings, gold in time does[142] wear away, And other precious things do fade, friendship will never decay. Have friends in store therefore, so shall you safely sleep; Have friends at home, of foreign foes so need you take no keep. Abandon flatt’ring tongues, whose clacks truth never tell; Abase the ill, advance the good, in whom dame virtue dwells; Let them your playfellows be: but O, you earthly kings, Your sure defence and strongest guard stands chiefly in faithful friends: Then get you friends by liberal deeds; and here I make an end. Accept this counsel, mighty king, of Damon, Pithias’ friend. O my Pithias! now farewell for ever, let me kiss thee, ere I die, My soul shall honour thee, thy constant faith above the heavens shall fly. Come, Gronno, do thine office now; why is thy colour so dead? My neck is so short, that thou wilt never have honesty in striking off this head.[143]