Imatges de pÓgina

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 th' fairness of my power.

Com. So, to our tent :
Where, ere we do repose us, we will write
To Rome of our success : you, Titus Larius,
Must to Corioli back; send us to Rome
The best, with whom we may articulate,
For their own good, and ours.

Lar. I shall, my Lord.

Mar. The Gods begin to mock me: I that but now Refus'd most princely gifts, am bound to beg Of my Lord-General.

Com. Take’t, 'tis yours : what is't?

Mar. I sometime lay here in Corioli,
And at a poor man's house : he us'd me kindly.
He cry'd to me : I saw him prisoner :
But then Aufidius was within my view,
And wrath o'er-whelm’d my pity : I request you
To give my poor host freedom.

Com. O well begg'd!
Were he the butcher of my son, he should
Be free as is the wind : deliver him, Titus,

Lar. Martius, his name?

Mar. By Jupiter, forgot : I'm weary ; yea, my memory

is tir'd: Have we no wine here?

Com. Go we to our tent ;
The blood upon your visage dries ; 'tis time
It should be look'd too : come.

[Exeun!. SCENE XII. The Camp of the Volici. A flourish. Cornets. Enter Tullus Aufidius bloody, wib

two or three Soldiers,
Auf. The town is ta’en.
Sol. 'Twill be deliver'd back on good condition.

Auf. Condition !
I would I were a Roman, for I cannot,
Being a Volscian, be that I am. Condition ?
What good condition can a treaty find

I'th' part that is at mercy? Five times, Martius,
I have fought with thee, so often haft thou beat me:
And would'It do so, I think, should we encounter
As often as we eat. By th'elements,
If e'er again I meet him beard to beard,
He's mine, or I am his : mine emulation
Hath not that honour in't it had ; for where
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.

Sol. He's the devil.
Auf. Bolder, tho' not fo subtle : my valour (poisonid
With only suffering stain by him) for him
Shall fie out of it self: not neep, nor sanctuary,
Being naked, fick, nor fane, nor Capitol,
The prayers of priests, nor times of facrifice,
Embankments all of fury, shall lift up
Their rotten privilege and custom 'gainst
My hate to Martius. Where I find him, were it
At home, upon my brother's guard, even there,
Against the hospitable canon, would I
Walh my fierce hand in's heart. Go you to th' city,
Learn how 'tis held, and what they are that must
Be hostages for Rome.

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. Sol. I shall, Sir.


А ст ІІ. SCENE 1.

R O M E.
Enter Menenius witb Sicinius and Brutus.

HF. Augur tells me, we shall have news to

Mor. T night

Bru. Good or bad?

Men. Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not Martius. Sie. Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.


Men. Pray you, whom does the wolf love ?
Sic. The lamb,

Men. Ay, to devour him, as the hungry Plebeians would the noble Martius.

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.

Botb. Well, Sir.

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

Bru. He's poor in no one fault, but stor'd with all.
Sic. Especially in pride.
Bru. And topping all others in boast.

Men. This is strange now! do you two know how you are censur'd here in the city, I mean of us o'ch' right-hand file, do you?

Bru. Why - how are we censurd ?
Men. Because you talk of pride now, will you not be
Botb. 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 dispositions 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 Martius 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 wondrous fingle ; your abilities are too infant-like, for doing much alone. You talk of pride - oh that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves! Oh that you could !

Bru. What then, Sir?

Men. Why then you should discover a brace of as unmeriting, proud, violent, tefty magiftrates, alias fools, as


any in Rome,

Sic. Menenius, you are knowa well enough too.

Men. I am known to be a humorous Patrician, and one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying, Tiber in’t: said to be something imperfect in favouring tbe

first complaint, hasty and tinder-like, upon too trivial motion: one that converses more with the buttock of the night, than with the forehead of the morning. What I think I utter, and spend my malice in my breath. Meeting

two such weals-men as you are (I cannot call you Lycuri gulles) if the drink you give me touch my palate adversely,

I make a crooked face at it. I can't say, your Worships have deliver’d the matter well, when I find the ass in compound with the major part of your syllables; and tho' I must be content to bear with those that say you are reverend grave men, yet they lie deadly that tell you, you have good faces; if you see this in the map of my microcofm, follows it that I am known well enough too? what harm can

your biffon conspectuities glean out of this character, if I i be known well enough too?

Bru. Come, Sir, come, we know you well enough.

Men, You know neither me, your selves, 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 foffet-seller, and then adjourn a controversy of three-pence 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 cholick, you make faces like mummers, set up the bloody flag against all patience, and in róaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss the controversy bleeding, the more intangled by your hearing all the peace you make in their cause, is calling both the parties knaves. You are a pair of Arange


Bru. Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter gyber 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 beft unto the purpose, it is not worth the wage ging of your beards, and your beards deserve not so honourable a grave as to stuff a botcher's cushion, or to be intomb'd in an ass's pack-faddle. Yet you must be saying, Martius is proud; who in a cheap estimation, is worth all your predecessors fince Deucalion, though peradventure some VOL. VII.



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.

[Exeunt Brutus and Sicinius. SCENE II. Enter Volumnia, Virgilia, and Valeria. How now, my as fair as noble Ladies, and the moon, were fhe earthly, no nobler ; whither do you follow your eyes so faft?

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

Men. Ha! Martius coming home ?

Vol. Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous approbation.

Men. Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee Martius coming home!

Botb. 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

- hoo,

for you.

Men. I will make my very house reel to-night: A letter for me! Vir. Yes, certain, there's a letter for


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

l'ir. Oh no, no, no.
Vol. Oh, he is wounded, I thank the Gods for't.

Men. So do I too, if he be not too much; brings he a victory in his pocket, the wounds become hiin.

Vol. On's brows, Menenius; he comes the third time home with the oaken garland.

Men. Hath he disciplin'd Aufidius soundly?

Vol. Titus Lartius writes, they fought together, but As. fidius got off.

Men. And 'twas time for him too, I'll warrant him that:

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