Cominius.
If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work,
Thou'lt not believe thy deeds: but I'll report it,
Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles;
Where great patricians shall attend, and shrug;
I'th' end admire; hear more; where the dull tribunes,
That with the fusty plebeians, hate thine honours,
Shall say against their hearts, We thank the Gods,
Our Rome hath such a soldier.
Yet cam'st thou to a morsel of this feast,
Having fully din'd before. Enter Titus Lartius.

Lar.
O general,
Here is the steed, we the caparison* ^note:
Hadst thou beheld—

Mar.
Pray now, no more: my mother,
Who has a charter to extol her blood,
When she does praise me, grieves me: I have done
As you have done, that's what I can, induc'd
As you have also been, that's for my country† ^note;

Com.
You shall not be
The grave of your deserving; Rome must know
The value of her own: 'twere a concealment,
Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement,
To hide your doings, and to silence that,
Which to the spire and top of praises vouch'd,
Would seem but modest: therefore, I beseech you,

(In sign of what you are, not to reward
What you have done) before our army hear me.

Mar.
I have some wounds upon me, and they smart,
To hear themselves remembered.

Com.
Should they not,
Well might they fester 'gainst ingratitude,
And tent themselves with death: of all the horses,
Whereof we've ta'en good, and good store, of all
The treasure in the field atchiev'd, and city,
We render you the tenth, to be ta'en forth,
Before the common distribution,
At your own choice.

Mar.
I thank you, general* ^note:
But cannot make my heart consent to take
A bribe to pay my sword: I do refuse it. [A long flourish, and a shout.
May these same instruments, which you profane,
Never sound more! when drums and trumpets shall
I'th' field prove flatterers, let camps as cities
Be made of false-fac'd soothing. When steel grows
Soft as the parasite's silk, let hymns be made
An overture for th'wars!—[Shout and flourish.]—No more, I say;
For that I have not wash'd my nose that bled,
Or foil'd some feeble wretch, which without note
Here's many else have done; you shout me forth,
In acclamations hyperbolical,
As if I lov'd my little should be dieted,
In praises sauc'd with lies† ^note.

Com.
Too modest are you:
More cruel in your good report, than grateful
To us, that give you truly: therefore be it known,

As to us, to all the world, that Caius Martius
Wears this war's garland:
For what he did before Corioli, call him,
With all th' applause and clamour of the host,
Caius Martius Coriolanus* ^note. Bear th' addition nobly, ever! [Flourish and shout.

Mar.
I will go wash:
And when my face is fair, you shall perceive
Whether I blush or no.

Com.
So, to our tent:
Where, ere we do repose us, we will write
To Rome of our success.

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† ^note.

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 to: come. [A march. [Exeunt‡ ^note.

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