Enter TITUS LARTIUS, with his power, from the Here is the steed, we the caparison 15: Hadst thou beheld Mar. Pray now, no more: my mother, Who has a charter to extol her blood, I have done, that's what I can; induc'd Com. You shall not be The grave of your deserving; Rome must know What you have done,) before our army hear me. Mar. I have some wounds upon me, and they smart To hear themselves remember'd. Com. Should they not, Well might they fester 'gainst ingratitude, And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses, (Whereof we have ta'en good, and good store,) of all The treasure, in this field achiev'd, and city, We render you the tenth; to be ta'en forth, Your only choice. Mar. I thank you, general; But cannot make my heart consent to take 1 [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 shall 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 16 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 note, As if I lov'd my little should be dieted In praises sauc'd with lies. Too modest are you; Com. 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 proper harm,) in manacles, Then reason safely with you.-Therefore, be it known, As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius With all the applause and clamour of the host, 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. Com. So, to our tent: Where, ere we do repose us, we will write To Rome of our success.-You, Titus Lartius, The best, with whom we may articulate17, Lart. 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. Com. Take it: 'tis yours.-What is't? Cor. I sometime lay, here in Corioli, He cry'd to me; I saw him prisoner; |