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Enter Aufidius, with a Serving-man. Auf. Where is this Fellow?
2 Ser. Here, Sir ; I'd have beaten him like a dog, but for disturbing the Lords within. Auf. Whence com’st thou ? what would'ft thou ?
thy name? Why speak'st not? speak, Man: what's thy name? Cor. If, Tullus, yet thou know'st me not, and seeine
me, Doft not yet take me for the Man I am, Necessity commands me name my self.
Auf, What is thy name?
Cor. A name unmusical to Volscian ears, And harsh in found to thine.
Auf. Say, what's thy name? Thou haft a grim appearance, and thy face Bears a command in't; though thy tackle's torn, Thou shew'st a noble vessel : what's thy name? Gor. Prepare thy brow to frown; know'st thou me
Auf. I know thee not'; thy name?
I'd have avoided thce. But in meer spite
Auf. Oh, Marcius, Marcius,
And Icar'd the moon with splinters: here I clip
Or lose my arm for't: thou hast beat me out
Cor. You bless me, Gods !
2 Ser. By my hand, I had thought to have ftrucken him with a cudgel, and yet my mind gave me, his clothes 'made a falle report of him.
1 Ser. What an arm he has ! he turn'd me about with his finger and his thumb, as one would set up a top: .
2 Ser. Nay, I knew by his face that there was something in him. He had, Sir, a kind of face, methoughtI cannot tell how to term it.
i Ser. He had lo: looking, as it were would I were hanged, but I thought there was more in him than I could think.
2 Ser. So did I, I'll be sworn : he is fimply the rareft man i'th' world.
1 Ser. I think, he is; but a greater Soldier than he, you wot one.
2 Ser. Who, my Mafter?
i Ser. Nay, not so neither, but I take him to be the greater Soldier.
2 Ser. Faith, look you, one cannot tell how to say that; for the defence of a Town, our General is excellent. i Ser. Ay, and for an affault too,
Enter a third Servant. 3
Ser. Oh, llaves, I can tell you news ; news, you rascals.
Both. What, what, what? let's partake,
3 Ser. I would not be a Roman, of all pations; I had as lieve be a condemn'd man.
Both. Wherefore? wherefore?
3 Ser. Why, here's he that was wont to thwack our General, Caius. Marcius.
i Ser. Why do you say, thwack our General?
3 Ser. I do not say, thwack our General; but he was always good enough for him.
2 Ser. Come, we are fellows and friends; he was ever too hard for him, I have heard him say so himself,
I Ser. He was too hard for him directly, to say the troth on’t : before Corioli, he scocht him and notcht him like a carbonado.
2 Ser. And, had he been cannibally given, he might have broil'd and eaten him too,
I Ser. But, more of thy news;
3 Ser. Why, he is so made on here within, as if he were Son and Heir to Mars: set at upper end o'th' table; no question ask'd him by any of the Senators, but they stand bald before him. Our General himself makes a Mistress of him, fanctifies himself with's hands, and turns up the white o'th' eye to his discourse. But the bottom of the news is, our General is cut i'th' middle, and but one half of what he was yesterday. For the Other has half, by the Intreaty and Grant of the whole table. He'll go, he says, and fowle the porter of Rome gates by th' ears. He will mow down all before him, and leave his passage poll'd.
2 Ser. And he's as like to do't as any man I can imagine:
3 Ser. Do't! he will do't: for look you, Sir, he has as many friends as enemies, which friends, Sir, as it were, durft not look you, Sir) shew themselves (as we term it) his friends, whilst he's in directitude.
I Ser. Directitude ? what's that?
3 Ser. But when they shall see, Sir, his Crest up again, and the man in blood, they will out of their burroughs (like "conies after rain) and revel all with him.
I Ser. But when goes this forward ?
3 Ser. To morrow, to day, presently, you shall have the drum ftruck up this afternoon : 'tis, as it were, a parcel of their feast, and to be executed ere they wipe their lips.
2 Ser. Why, then we shall have a stirring world again: this peace is worth nothing, but to rust iron, encrease tailors, and breed ballad-makers.
i Ser. Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace, as far as day does night ; it's sprightly, waking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy, mullid, deaf, neepy, insensible, a getter of more bastard children than war's 'a destroyer of men.
2 Ser. 'Tis so; and as war in some fort may be said to be a ravisher, so it cannot be denied, but peace is a great maker of cuckolds.
i Ser. Ay, and it makes men hate one another.