Men.
This man has marr'd his fortune.
His nature is too noble for the world:
He would not flatter Neptune, for his trident,
Or Jove, for's power to thunder: his heart's his mouth:
What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent;
And being angry, does forget that ever
He heard the name of death.— [A noise within.
Here's goodly work. Enter Brutus and Sicinius, with the rabble again.

Sic.
Where is this viper,
That would depopulate the city, and
Be every man himself?

Men.
You worthy tribunes—

Sic.
He shall be thrown down the Tarpeian rock,
With rigorous hands; he hath resisted law,
And therefore law shall scorn him further trial,
Than the severity of public power,
Which he so sets at nought.

1 Cit.
He shall well know the noble tribunes are
The people's mouths, and we their hands.

All.
He shall,
Be sure on't.

Men.
Sir, Sir,—

Sic.
Peace.

Men.
Do not cry havock, where you should but hunt
With modest warrant.

Sic.
Sir, how comes it you
Have holp to make this rescue?

Men.
Hear me speak;
As I do know the consul's worthiness,
So can I name his faults—

Sic.
Consul!—what consul!

Men.
The consul Coriolanus.

Bru.
He the consul!—

All.
No, no, no, no, no.

Men.
If by the tribunes leave, and yours, good people,
I may be heard, I crave a word or two,
The which shall turn you to no further harm,
Than so much loss of time.

Sic.
Speak briefly, then,
For we are peremptory to dispatch
This viperous traitor; to eject him hence,
Were but our danger, and to keep him here,
Our certain death; therefore it is decreed,
He dies, to-night.

Men.
Now the good Gods forbid,
That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude
Tow'rds her deserving children is enroll'd
In Jove's own book, like an unnatural dam,
Should now eat up her own!

Sic.
He's a disease that must be cut away.

Men.
Oh, he is but a limb, that has disease;
Mortal, to cut it off; to cure it, easy.
What has he done to Rome, that's worthy death?
Killing our enemies? the blood he hath lost
(Which, I dare vouch, is more than that he hath,
By many an ounce) he dropt it for his country:
And what is left, to lose it by his country,
Were to us all that do't, and suffer it,
A brand to th' end o'th' world.

Bru.
We'll hear no more.
Pursue him to his house, and pluck him thence,
Lest his infection, being of catching nature,
Spread further.

Men.
One word more, hear me one word:
Proceed by process,
Lest parties (as he is belov'd) break out,
And sack great Rome with Romans.

Bru.
If 'twere so—

Sic.
What do ye talk?

Have we not had a taste of his obedience?
Our Ædiles smote, ourselves resisted! come—

Men.
Consider this; he hath been bred i'th' wars,
Since he could draw a sword, and is ill-school'd
In boulted language, meal and bran together
He throws without distinction. Give me leave,
I'll go to him, and undertake to bring him,
Where he shall answer by a lawful form,
In peace, to his utmost peril.

Sic.
Noble Menenius,
Be you then as the people's officer.
Masters, lay down your weapons.

Bru.
Go not home.

Sic.
Meet on the Forum; we'll attend you there,
Where if you bring not Martius, we'll proceed
In our first way.

Men.
I'll go and bring him to you. [Exeunt.

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