Imatges de pÓgina

(Whereof we have ta'en good, and good store,) of


The treasure, in this field achiev'd, and city,
We render you the tenth; to be ta'en forth,
Before the common distribution, at

Your only choice.


I thank you, general; But cannot make my heart consent to take A bribe to pay my sword: I do refuse it; And stand upon my common part with those That have beheld the doing.

[A long flourish. They all cry, Marcius! Marcius! cast up their caps and lances: COMINIUS

and LARTIUS stand bare.

Mar. May these same instruments, which you profane,

Never sound more! When drums and trumpets


I' the field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be
Made all of false-fac'd soothing: When steel grows
Soft as the parasite's silk, let him be made

An overture for the wars! No more, I say;
For that I have not wash'd my nose that bled,
Or foil'd some debile wretch, which, without

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you shout me forth

Here's many else have done,
In acclamations hyperbolical;
As if I loved my little should be dieted
In praises sauc'd with lies.

Too modest are you;
More cruel to your good report, than grateful
To us that give you truly by your patience,
If 'gainst yourself you be incens'd, we'll put you
(Like one that means his proper3 harm,) in mana-


Then reason safely with you.


4 Weak, feeble.

Therefore, be it

s Own.

As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius
Wears this war's garland: in token of the which
My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him,
With all his trim belonging; and, from this time,
For what he did before Corioli, call him,

With all the applause and clamour of the host,

Bear the addition nobly ever!

[Flourish. Trumpets sound, and Drums.

All. Caius Marcius Coriolanus !

Cor. I will go wash;

And when my face is fair, you shall perceive
Whether I blush, or no : Howbeit, I thank you
I mean to stride your steed; and, at all times,
To undercrest your good addition,

To the fairness of my power.

So, to our tent:
Whére, ere we do repose us, we will write
To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius,
Must to Corioli back: send us to Rome

The best', with whom we may articulate,
For their own good, and ours.


I shall, my lord.

Cor: The gods begin to mock me. I that now Refus'd most princely gifts, am bound to beg Of my lord general.

Take it: 'tis yours.

Cor. I sometime lay, here in Corioli,

What is 't?

At a poor man's house; he us'd me kindly:
He cried to me; I saw him prisoner;
But then Aufidius was within my view,

And wrath o'erwhelm'd my pity: I request you
To give my poor host freedom.


O, well begg'd!

Were he the butcher of my son, he should
Be free, as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus.

6 Add more by doing his best.

8 Enter into articles.

7 Chief men.

Lart. Marcius, his name?


By Jupiter, forgot:

I am weary; yea, my memory is tir'd.
Have we no wine here?


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Go we to our tent:

The blood upon your visage dries: 'tis time
It should be look'd to: come.


A Flourish.


The Camp of the Volces.


bloody, with two or three Soldiers.

Auf. The town is ta'en!

1 Sol. 'Twill be delivered back on good condition. Auf. Condition ?.

I would, I were a Roman; for I cannot,

Being a Volce, be that I am. Condition!
What good condition can a treaty find

I' the part that is at mercy? Five times, Marcius,
I have fought with thee; so often hast thou beat me ;
And would'st do so, I think, should we encounter
As often as we eat. By the elements,
If e'er again I meet him beard to beard,

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He is mine, or I am his: Mine emulation

Hath not that honour in't, it had; for where 9
I thought to crush him in an equal force,

(True sword to sword,) I'll potch' at him some way; Or wrath, or craft, may get him.

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He's the devil.

Auf. Bolder, though not so subtle: My valour's


With only suffering stain by him; for him
Shall fly out of itself: nor sleep, nor sanctuary,

9 Whereas.

1 Poke, push.



Being naked, sick: nor fane, nor Capitol,
The prayers of priests, nor times of sacrifice,
Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up
Their rotten privilege and custom 'gainst
My hate to Marcius: where I find him, were it
At home, upon my brother's guard, even there
Against the hospitable canon, would I
Wash my fierce hand in his heart.


Go you to the

Learn, how 'tis held; and what they are, that must Be hostages for Rome.

1 Sol.

Will not you go?

Auf. I am attended' at the cypress grove : I pray you,

("Tis south the city mills,) bring me word thither How the world goes; that to the pace of it

I may spur on my journey.

1 Sol.

I shall, sir. [Exeunt.



Rome. A Publick Place.


Men. The augurer tells me, we shall have news to-night.

Bru. Good, or bad?

Men. Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not Marcius.

a Waited for.

Sic. Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.
Men. Pray you, who does the wolf love?
Sic. The lamb.

Men. Ay, to devour him; as the hungry plebeians would the noble Marcius.

Bru. He's a lamb indeed, that baes like a bear. Men. He's a bear, indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two are old men ; tell me one thing that I shall ask you.

Both Trib. Well, sir.

Men. In what enormity is Marcius poor, that you two have not in abundance?

Bru. He's poor in no one fault, but stored with all.

Sic. Especially, in pride.

Bru. And topping all others in boasting.

Men. This is strange now: Do you two know how you are censured here in the city, I mean of us o' the right hand file? Do you?

Both Trib. Why, how are we censured?

Men. Because you talk of pride now,- Will you not be angry?

Both Trib. Well, well, sir, well.

Men. Why 'tis no great matter; for a very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience give your disposition the reins, and be angry at your pleasures; at the least, if you take it as a pleasure to you, in being so. You blame Marcius for being proud?

Bru. We do it not alone, sir.

Men. I know, you can do very little alone; for your helps are many; or else your actions would grow wonderous single: your abilities are too infant-like, for doing much alone. You talk of pride: O, that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves! O, that you could!

Bru. What then, sir?

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