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 Martius approaches; for the love of Juno let's go.

Men.

Ha! Martius coming home!

Vol.

Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous approbation.

Men.

Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee— hoo, Martius coming home!

Both.

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, certainly, there is a letter for you, I saw't.

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 is but empiric, and, to this preservation, of no better report than a horse-drench. Is he not wounded? he was wont to come home wounded.

Vir.

Oh, no, no, no.

Vol.

Oh, he is wounded, I thank the Gods for't.

Men.

So do I too, if he be not too much; brings he a victory in his pockets, the wounds become him.

Vol.

On's brows, Menenius; he comes the third time home with the oaken garland.

Men.

Hath he disciplin'd 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; if he had staid by him, I would not have been so fidius'd, for all the chests in Corioli, and the gold that's in them. Is the senate possest of this?

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 out-done his former deeds, doubly.

Vol.

In truth 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, waw.

Men.

True? I'll be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded? God save their good worships! Martius is coming home: he has more cause to be proud:—where is he wounded?

Val.

I'th' shoulder, and 'th' left arm; there will be large cicatrices* ^note to shew the people, when he shall stand for his place. He receiv'd, in the repulse of Tarquin, seven hurts i'th' body.

Men.

One i'th' neck, and one too i'th' thigh; there's nine, that I know.

Vol.

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

Men.

Now 'tis twenty-seven: every gash was an enemy's grave. [A shout and flourish.] Hark, the trumpets.

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

The Triumph. Trumpets sound. Enter Cominius the general, and Titus Lartius; between them Coriolanus, crown'd with an oaken garland, with captains and soldiers, and a herald.

Com.
Welcome to Rome, renown'd Coriolanus! [A flourish.

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

Com.
Look, Sir, your mother.

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

Vol.
Nay, my soldier, up:
My gentle Martius, my worthy Caius,
By deed-atchieved honour newly nam'd,
What is it, Coriolanus, must I call thee!
But oh, thy wife—

Cor.
My gracious silence, hail!
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? [To Val.

Vol.
I know not where to turn. O welcome home;
And welcome, general! y'are welcome all.

Men.
A hundred thousand welcomes: I could weep,
And I could laugh; I'm light and heavy; welcome!
A curse begin at very root on's heart,
That is not glad to see thee! You are three
That Rome should dote on: yet, by the faith of men,
We've 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.
Give way there, and go on.

Cor.
Your hand, and yours.
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 charge of honour.

Vol.
I have lived,
To see inherited my very wishes,
And buildings of my fancy; only one thing
Is 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. [A grand march. [Exeunt in state, as before.

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