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.

Sic.

Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.

Men.

Pray you, who does the wolf love^{8 note}?

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 in^{9 note}

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 wondrous 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^{1 note}, and make but an interior survey of your good selves! O, that you could!

Bru.

What then, sir?

Men.

Why, then you should discover a brace of unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates, (alias, fools,) as any in Rome^{2 note}.

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 Tyber in't^{3 note}

Bru.

Come, sir, come, we know you well enough.

Men.

You know neither me, yourselves, nor any thing. You are ambitious for poor knaves' caps and legs^{8 note}; you wear out a good wholesome forenoon^{9 note}, in hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a fosset-seller; and then rejourn the 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 pinched with the cholick, you make faces like mummers; set up the bloody flag against all patience^{1 note}; and, in roaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss the controversy bleeding, the more entangled by your hearing: all the peace you make in their cause, is, calling both the parties knaves: You are a pair of strange ones.

Bru.

Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter giber 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^{2 note}. When you speak best unto the purpose, it is not worth the wagging of your beards; and your beards deserve not so honourable a grave, as to stuff a botcher's cushion, or to be entombed in an ass's pack-saddle. Yet you must be saying, Marcius is proud; who, in a cheap estimation, is worth all your predecessors, since Deucalion; though, peradventure, some 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^{3 note}; I will be bold to take my leave of you. [Brutus and Sicinius retire to the back of the Scene. Enter Volumnia, Virgilia, and Valeria, &c. How now, my as fair as noble ladies, (and the moon, were she earthly, no nobler,) whither do you follow your eyes so fast?

Vol.

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

Men.

Ha! Marcius coming home?

Vol.

Ay, worthy Menenius; and with most prosperous approbation.

Men.

Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee^{4 note}

Two Ladies.

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 for you.

Men.

I will make my very house reel to-night: —A letter for me?

Vir.

Yes, certain, there's a letter for you; I saw it.

Men.

A letter for me? It gives me an estate of seven years' health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician: the most sovereign prescription in Galen^{5 note} is but empiricutick^{6 note}, and, to this preservative, of no better report than a horse-drench. Is he not wounded? he was wont to come home wounded.

Vir.

O, no, no, no.

Vol.

O , he is wounded, I thank the gods for't.

Men.

So do I too, if it be not too much:— Brings 'a victory in his pocket?—The wounds become him.

Vol.

On's brows, Menenius^{7 note}

Men.

Has he disciplined Aufidius soundly?

Vol.

Titus Lartius writes,—they fought together, but Aufidius got off.

Men.

And 'twas time for him too, I'll warrant him that: an he had staid by him, I would not have been so fidiused for all the chests in Corioli, and the gold that's in them. Is the senate possessed of this^{8 note}

Vol.

Good ladies, let's go:—Yes, yes, yes: the senate has letters from the general, wherein he gives my son the whole name of the war: he hath in this action outdone his former deeds doubly.

Val.

In troth, there's wondrous things spoke of him.

Men.

Wondrous? ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing.

Vir.

The gods grant them true!

Vol.

True? pow, wow.

Men.

True? I'll be sworn they are true:—Where is he wounded?—God save your good worships! [To the Tribunes, who come forward.] Marcius is coming home: he has more cause to be proud.— Where is he wounded?

Vol.

I' the shoulder, and i' the left arm: There will be large cicatrices to show the people, when he shall stand for his place. He received in the repulse of Tarquin, seven hurts i' the body.

Men.

One in the neck, and two in the thigh,— there's nine that I know^{9 note}

Vol.

He had, before this last expedition, twenty-five wounds upon him.

Men.

Now it's twenty-seven: every gash was an enemy's grave: [A Shout and Flourish.] Hark! the trumpets.

Vol.
These are the ushers of Marcius: before him
He carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears;
Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie;
Which being advanc'd, declines^{1 note}; and then men die.

A Sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter Cominius and Titus Lartius; between them, Coriolanus, crowned with an oaken Garland; with Captains, Soldiers, and a Herald.

Her.
Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight
Within Corioli's gates: where he hath won,
With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these
In honour follows, Coriolanus^{2 note}

All.
Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

Cor.
No more of this, it does offend my heart;
Pray now, no more.

Com.
Look, sir, your mother,—

Cor.
O!
You have, I know, petition'd all the gods
For my prosperity. [Kneels.

Vol.
Nay, my good soldier, up;
My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and
By deed-achieving honour newly nam'd,
What is it? Coriolanus, must I call thee?
But O, thy wife—

Cor.
My gracious silence, hail^{3 note}

Would'st thou have laugh'd, had I come coffin'd home,
That weep'st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear,
Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear,
And mothers that lack sons.

Men.
Now the gods crown thee!

Cor.
And live you yet?—O my sweet lady, pardon. [To Valeria.

Vol.
I know not where to turn:—O welcome home;
And welcome, general;—And you are welcome all.

Men.
A hundred thousand welcomes: I could weep,

And I could laugh; I am light, and heavy: Welcome:
A curse begin at very root of his heart,
That is not glad to see thee!—You are three,
That Rome should dote on: yet, by the faith of men,
We have some old crab-trees here at home, that will not
Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors:
We call a nettle, but a nettle; and
The faults of fools, but folly.

Com.
Ever right.

Cor.
Menenius, ever, ever^{4 note}

Her.
Give way there, and go on.

Cor.
Your hand, and yours: [To his Wife and Mother.
Ere in our own house I do shade my head,
The good patricians must be visited;
From whom I have receiv'd not only greetings,
But with them change of honours^{5 note}

Vol.
I have lived
To see inherited my very wishes,
And the buildings of my fancy: only there
Is one thing wanting, which I doubt not, but
Our Rome will cast upon thee.

Cor.
Know, good mother,
I had rather be their servant in my way,
Than sway with them in theirs.

Com.
On, to the Capitol. [Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before. The Tribunes remain.

Bru.
All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights
Are spectacled to see him: Your pratling nurse
Into a rapture^{6 note}

While she chats him: the kitchen malkin^{7 note}

Clambering the walls to eye him: Stalls, bulks, windows,
Are smother'd up, leads fill'd, and ridges hors'd
With variable complexions; all agreeing
In earnestness to see him: seld-shown flamens^{1 note}

Of Phœbus' burning kisses: such a pother,
As if that whatsoever god^{4 note}

Sic.
On the sudden,
I warrant him consul.

Bru.
Then our office may,
During his power, go sleep.

Sic.
He cannot temperately transport his honours
From where he should begin, and end^{5 note}

Bru.
In that there's comfort.

Sic.
Doubt not, the commoners, for whom we stand,
But they, upon their ancient malice, will
Forget, with the least cause, these his new honours;
Which that he'll give them, make as little question
As he is proud to do't^{6 note}

Bru.
I heard him swear,
Were he to stand for consul, never would he
Appear i' the market-place, nor on him put
The napless vesture^{7 note}

Sic.
'Tis right.

Bru.
It was his word: O, he would miss it, rather
Than carry it, but by the suit o' the gentry to him,
And the desire of the nobles.

Sic.
I wish no better,
Than have him hold that purpose, and to put it
In execution.

Bru.
'Tis most like, he will.

Sic.
It shall be to him then, as our good wills;
A sure destruction^{8 note}

Bru.
So it must fall out
To him, or our authorities. For an end,
We must suggest the people^{9 note}

Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows
For sinking under them.

Sic.
This, as you say, suggested
At some time when his soaring insolence
Shall teach the people^{4 note}

Bru.
What's the matter?

Mess.
You are sent for to the Capitol. 'Tis thought,
That Marcius shall be consul: I have seen
The dumb men throng to see him, and the blind
To hear him speak: Matrons flung gloves^{6 note}

Bru.
Let's to the Capitol;
And carry with us ears and eyes for the time^{7 note},
But hearts for the event.

Sic.
Have with you. [Exeunt.

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