Menenius.
No, I'll not go: you hear what he hath said,
Which was sometime his general, who lov'd him,
In a most dear particular. He call'd me father;
But what o'that? go you that banish'd him,
A mile before his tent fall down, and knee
The way into his mercy: nay, if he coy'd
To hear Cominius speak, I'll keep at home.

Com.
He would not seem to know me.

Men.
Do you hear?

Com.
Yet one time he did call me by my name:
I urg'd our old acquaintance, and the drops
That we have bled together. Coriolanus
He would not answer to; forbad all names;
He was a kind of nothing, titleless,
'Till he had forg'd himself a name, i'th' fire
Of burning Rome.

Men.
Why, so; you've made good work:
A pair of Tribunes, that have reck'd for Rome,
To make coals cheap: a noble memory!

Com.
I minded him how royal 'twas to pardon,
When it was least expected. He reply'd,
It was a bare† ^note petition of a state,
To one whom they had punish'd.

Men.
Very well, could he say less?

Com.
I offer'd to awaken his regard,
For's private friends. His answer to me was,
He could not stay to pick them, in a pile
Of noisome musty chaff. He said, 'twas folly,
For one poor grain or two, to leave unburnt,
And still to nose th' offence.

Men.
For one poor grain
Or two; I'm one of those; his mother, wife,
His child, and this brave fellow, we're the grains;
You are the musty chaff, and you are smelt
Above the moon. We must be burnt, for you.‡ ^note

Sic.
Nay, pray be patient: if you refuse your aid,
In this so-never-needed help, yet do not
Upbraid's with our distress. But sure if you
Would be your country's pleader, your good tongue,
More than the instant army we can make,
Might stop our country-man.

Men.
No: I'll not meddle.

Sic.
Pray you go to him.

Men.
What should I do?

Bru.
Only make trial what your love can do,
For Rome, tow'rds Martius.

Men.
I'll undertake it:
I think he'll hear me. Yet to bite his lip,
And hum at good Cominius, much unhearts me.
He was not taken well, he had not din'd.
The veins unfill'd, our blood is cold, and then
We powt upon the morning, are unapt
To give or to forgive; but when we've stuff'd
These pipes, and these conveyances of blood,
With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls,
Than in our priest-like fasts: therefore I'll watch him,
'Till he be dieted to my request,
And then I'll set upon him.

Bru.
You know the very road into his kindness,
And cannot lose your way.

Men.
Good faith, I'll prove him,
Speed how it will. You shall ere long have knowledge
Of my success. [Exit.

Com.
He'll never hear him.

Sic.
Not?

Com
I tell you, he does sit in gold; his eye
Red as 'twould burn Rome; and his injury
The goaler to his pity. I kneel'd before him,
'Twas very faintly he said, Rise: dismiss'd me
Thus, with his speechless hand. What he would do,
He sent in writing after; what he would not,
Bound with an oath, not yield to new conditions:
So that all hope is vain, unless his mother,
And wife, who (as I hear) mean to solicit him,
Force mercy to his country: therefore, hence,
And with our fair intreaties haste them on. [Exeunt.

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