Mar. May these fame inftruments, which you profane, (10)

Never found more! when drums and trumpets fhall
I' th' field prove flatterers, let camps, as cities,
Be made of falfe-fac'd foothing! when fteel grows
Soft, as the parafite's filk, let hymns be made
An overture for th' wars!-No more, I say;
For that I have not wash'd my nose that bled,

(10) May these fame inftruments, which you profane,

Never found more: when drums and trumpets fhall
I th' field prove flatterers, let courts and cities
Be made all of falfe-faced foothing.

When feel grows foft, as the parafite's filk,
Let him be male an overture for th' wars:
No more I fay; for that I have not wash'd
My nofe that bed, or foil'd fome debile wretch,
Which without note here's many elfe have done,

You fhout me forth in acclamations hyperbolical, &c ]

Many of the verses in this truly fine paffage are difmounted, unnumerous, and imperfect: and the laft is no less than two foot and a half too long. For this reafon I have ventur'd to tranfpof: them to their measure; and the fenfe, 'tis plain, has been no lefs maim'd than the numbers. To remedy this part, I have had the affiftance of my ingenious friend Mr. Warburton; and with the benefit of his happy conjectures, which I have inferted in the text, the whole, I hope, is reftor'd to that purity, which was quite loft in the corrup tions. I shall now fubjoin his comment, in proof of the emendati"The meaning, that fenfe requires in the antithefis eviden ly defign'd here, is this. If one change its ufual nature to a thing "moft oppofite, then let the o her do fo too. But courts and cities, "being made all of smooth-fac'd foothing, remain in their proper naIn the fecond part of the fentence, the antithesis between feel and the parafite's filk does not indeed labour with this abfurdi"6 ty: but it labours with another equally bad, and that is, nonsense in the expreffion. The poet's whole thought feems to be this. If drums and trumpets change their nature prepoftercufly, let camps do "fo too: And in the latter part of the fentence, the emendation

ons.

"

❝ture.

"

feems to give a particular beauty to the expreffion. He had faid "before, If drums and trumpets prove flatterers; now here, al'uding "to the fame thought, he fays, Then let hymns, foft mufick deflin'd

to the praifes of gods and beroes, be an overture for the wars: Where "the overture is ufed with great technical propriety -I fhould ob"serve one thing, that the members of these two antitheses are con"founded one with another, which is a practice common with the "beft authors: and it is a figure the rhetoricians have found a name * for.

Or

Or foil'd fome debile wretch, which, without note
Here's many else have done; you fhout me forth
In acclamations hyperbolical;

As if I lov'd, my little fhould be dieted
In praifes, fauc'd with lies.

Com. 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 proper harm) in manacles;
Then reafon fafely with you: therefore be it known,
As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius
Wears this war's garland: in token of the which,
My noble fteed, 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 th' applaufe and clamour of the hoft,

Caius Marcius Coriolanus. Bear th' addition nobly ever. [Flourish. Trumpets sound and drums.

Omnes. Caius Marcius Coriolanus!

Mar. I will go wash :

And when my face is fair, you fhall perceive

Whether I blush, or no.

Howbeit, I thank you.

I mean to ftride your feed, and at all time

To undercrest your good addition,

To th' fairness of my power.

Com. So, to our tent:

Where, ere we do repofe us, we will write
To Rome of our fuccefs: you, Titus Lartius,
Muft to Corioli back; fend us to Rome
The best, with whom we may articulate,
For their own good, and ours.
Lart. I fhall, 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 fometime lay here in Corioli,
At a poor man's houfe: he us'd me kindly.
He cry'd to me: I faw him prifoner:

But

But then Aufidius was within my view,

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

Com. O, well begg'd!

Were he the butcher of my fon, he should
Be free as is the wind: deliver him, Titus.
Lart. Marcius, his name?

Mar. By Jupiter, forgot:

I am 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 to: come.

[Exeunt.

SCENE changes to the Camp of the Vol.

A flourish. Cornets. Enter Tullus Aufidius bloody, with two or three Soldiers.

Auf. T

HE 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 Volfcian, be that I am.

Condition?

What good condition can a treaty find

I' th' part that is at mercy? Five times, Marcius,
I have fought with thee, fo often haft thou beat me:
And would't do fo, I think, fhould 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 fword to fword; I'll potch at him fome way,
Or wrath, or craft may get him.

Sol. He's the devil.

Auf. Bolder, tho' not fo fubtle: my valour (poifon'd, With only fuffering ftain by him) for him Shall fly out of itfelf: not fleep, nor fanctuary, Being naked, fick, nor fane, nor capitol, The prayers of priests, nor times of facrifice,

Embark

Embarkments all of fury, fhall 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 hofpitable canon, would I

Wafh my fierce hand in's heart. Go you to th' city; Learn, how 'tis held; and what they are, that muft Be hoftages for Rome.

Sol. Will not you go?

Auf. I am attended at the cyprefs grove. I pray you, ('Tis fouth the city-mills) bring me word thither How the world goes, that to the pace of it

I may fpur on my journey.

Sol. I fhall, Sir.

XX

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE, Rome.

Enter Menenius, with Sicinius and Brutus.

HE

TH

MENENIU S.

augur 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.

Sic. Nature teaches beafts 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 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. Well, Sir;

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

you two

Bru.

Bru. He's poor in no one fault, but ftor'd with all. Sic. Efpecially, in pride.

Bru. And topping all others in boafting.

Men. This is ftrange now; do you two know how you are cenfur'd here in the city, I mean of us o' th' right hand file, do you?

Bru. Why,-how are we cenfur'd ? Men. Because you talk of pride now, be angry?

Both Well, well, Sir, well.

will you not

Men. Why, 'tis no great matter; for a very little thief of occafion will rob you of a great deal of patience: -give your difpofitions the reins, and be angry at your pleasures; at the leaft, if you take it as a pleasure to you, in being fo:-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 elfe 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 furvey of your good felves! 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 known 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: faid to be fomething imperfect, in favouring the firft complaint; hafty and tinderlike, upon too trivial motion: one that converfes more with the buttock of the night, than with the fore-head of the morning. What I think, I utter; and spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two fuch weals-men as you are, (I cannot call you Lycurguffes) if the drink you give me touch my palate adverfly, I make a crooked face at it. I can't fay, your worships have deliver'd

the