Imatges de pàgina
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you Lycurguses) if the drink you gave me, touch iny palate adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I cannot say, your worships have deliver'd the matter well, when I find the ass in compound with the major part of your syllables: and though I must be content to bear with those that say you are reverend grave men; yet they lie deadly, that tell, you have good faces. If you see this in the map of my microcosm, follows it, that I am known well enough too? What harm can your bisson + conspectuities glean out of this character, if I be known well enough too?

Bru. Come, Sir, come, we know you well enough. Men. You know neither me, yourselves, nor any thing. You are ambitious for poor knaves' caps and legs; you wear out a good wholesome forenoon, in hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a fosset-seller; and then rejourn the controversy of threepence to a second day of audience. When you are hearing a matter between party and party, if you chance to be pinch'd with the cholic you make faces like mummiers; set up the bloody flag against all patience; and, in roaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss the controversy bleeding, the more entangled by your hearing: all the peace you make in their cause, is calling both the parties knaves: you are a pair of strange ones.

Bru. Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter giber for the table, than a necessary bencher in the Capitol.

Men. Our very priests must become mockers, if they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects as you are. When you speak best unto the purpose, it is not worth the wagging of your beards; and your beards deserve not so honourable a grave, as to stuff a botcher's cushion, or to be entombed in an ass's pack-saddle. Yet you must be saying, Marcius is proud; who, in a cheap estimation, is worth all your predecessors, since Deucalion; though, peradventure, some of the best of them were hereditary hangmen. Good e'en to your worships; more of your conversation would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians: I will be bold to take my leave of you.

[Bru. and Sic. retire to the back of the Scene.

• Whole man.

+ Blind.

Obeisance.

Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and VALERIA, &c. How now, my.as fair as noble ladies (and the moon, were she earthly, no nobler,) whither do you follow your eyes so fast?

Vol. Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius approaches; for the love of Juno, let's go.

Men. Ha! Marcius coming home?

Vol. Ay, worthy Menenius; and with most pros. perous approbation.

Men. Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee:Hoo! Marcius coming home?

Two Ladies. Nay, 'tis true.

Vol. Look, here's a letter from him; the state. hath another, his wife another; and, I think, there's one at home for you.

Men. I will make my very house reel to-night: -A letter for me?

Vir. Yes, certain, there's a letter for you; I saw it.

Men. A letter for me? It gives me an estate of seven years' health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician; the most sovereign prescription in Galen is but empiricutie, and, to this preservative, of no better report than a horse-drench. Is he not wounded? He was wont to come home wounded.

Vir. O, no, no, no.

Vol. O, he is wounded, I thank the gods for't. Men. So do I too, if it be not too much:-Brings a victory in his pocket?-The wounds become him. Vol. On's brows, Menenius: he comes the third time home with the oaken garland.

Men. Has he disciplined Aufidius soundly?

Vol. Titus Lartius writes,-they fought together, but Aufidius got off.

Men. And 'twas time for him too, I'll warrant him that: an he had staid by him, I would not have been so fidiused for all the chests in Corioli. and the gold that's in them. Is the senate possess ed of this?

Vol. Good ladies, let's go :-Yes, yes, yes the senate has letters from the general, wherein he gives my son the whole name of the war he hath in this action outdone his former deeds doubly. Val. In troth, there's wondrous things spoke of him.

• Fully informed.

Men. Wondrous ? Ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing.

Vir. The gods grant them true!
Vol. True? Pow, wow.

Men. True? I'll be sworn they are true :-Where is he wounded?-God save your good worships! [To the Tribunes, who come forward.] Marcius is coming home; he has more cause to be proud.Where is he wounded?

Vol. I' the shoulder, and i' the left arm : There will be large cicatrices to shew the people, when he shall stand for his place. He received in the repulse of Tarquin, seven hurts i' the body.

Men. One in the neck, and two in the thigh,there's nine that I know.

Vol. He had, before this last expedition, twentyfive wounds upon him.

Men. Now it's twenty-seven: every gash was an Eenemy's grave: [A Shout and Flourish.] Hark! the

trumpets.

Vol. These are the ushers of Marcius: before him He carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears; Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie; Which being advanced, declines; and then men die.

A Sennet.- Trumpets sound. Enter COMINIUS and TITUS LARTIUS; between them, CORIOLANUS, crowned with an oaken Garland: with CAPTAINS, SOLDIERS, and a HERALD.

Her. Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight

Within Corioli's gates: where he hath won,
With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these
In hon our follows, Coriolanus:
Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

[Flourish.

All. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! Cor. No more of this, it does offend my heart; Pray now, no more.

Com. Look, Sir, your mother,-
Cor. O!

You have, I know, petition'd all the gods
For my prosperity.

Vol. Nay, my good soldier, up;
My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and
By deed-achieving honour newly named,
Flourish on cornets.

VOL. IV.

Eee

[Kneels.

What is it? Coriolanus, must I call thee?
But 0, thy wife-.

*

Cor. My gracious
Wouldst thou have laugh'd, had I come coffin'd

silence, hail!

home,

That weep'st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear,
Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear,
And mothers that lack sons.

Men. Now the gods crown thee!

Cor. And live you yet?-O my sweet lady, par[To Valeria.

don.

Vol. I know not where to turn:-O welcome home;

And welcome, general;-And you are welcome

all.

Men. A hundred thousand welcomes: I could

weep,

And I could laugh; I am light, and heavy: wel

come :

A curse begin at very root of his heart,
That is not glad to see thee !-You are three,
That Rome should dote on yet, by the faith of

men,

We have some old crab-trees here at home, that will not

Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors:
We call a nettle, but a nettle; and
The faults of fools, but folly.

Com. Ever right.

Cor. Menenius, ever, ever.
Her. Give way there, and go on.
Cor. Your hand, and yours

[To his Wife and Mother. Ere in our own house I do shade my head, The good patricians must be visited;

From whom I have received not only greetings,
But with them change of honours.

Vol. I have lived

To see inherited my very wishes,
And the buildings of my fancy only there
Is one thing wanting, which I doubt not, but
Our Rome will cast upon thee.

Cor. Know, good mother,

I had rather be their servant in my way,
Than sway with them in theirs.
Com. On, to the Capitol.

[Flourish.-Cornets.-Exeunt in state as before.-The Tribunes remain.

* Graceful.

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Bru. All tongues speak of him, and the bleared
sights

Are spectacled to see him: your prattling nurse
Into a rapture lets her baby cry,

While she chats him: the kitchen malkin + pins
Her richest lockram ‡ 'bout her reechy § neck,
Clambering the walls to eye him: stalls, bulks,

windows,

Are smother'd up, leads fill'd, and ridges horsed, With variable complexions; all agreeing

1

In earnestness to see him: seld shewn flamens¶
Do press among the popular throngs, and puff
To win a vulgar station **: our veil'd dames
Commit the war of white and damask, in
Their nicely-gawded ++ cheeks, to the wanton spoil
Of Phoebus burning kisses: such a pother,
As if that whatsoever god, who leads him
Were slily crept into his human powers,
And gave him graceful posture.

Sic. On the sudden,

I warrant him consul.

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Bru. Then our office may,
During his power, go sleep.

Sic. He cannot temparately transport his honours
From where he should begin, and end; but will
Lose those that he hath won.

Bru. In that there's comfort.

Sic. Doubt not the commoners, for whom we

stand,

But they, upon their ancient malice, will
Forget, with the least cause, these his new honours;
Which that he'll give them, make as little question
As he is proud to do 't.

Bru. I heard him swear,

Were he to stand for consul, never would he
Appear i' the market-place, nor on him put
The napless vesture of humility;
Nor, shewing (as the manner is) his wounds
To the people, beg their stinking breaths.

Sic. Tis right.

Bru. It was his word : O, he would miss it, rather Than carry it, but by the suit o' the gentry to him, And the desire of the nobles.

Best linen. Seldom. Common standing-place,

Fit.

+ Maid.

Soiled with sweat and smoke.
¶ Priests.
++ Adorn'd.

Thread-bare,

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