Sicinius.
Men.
See you yon coin o'th' capitol, yon corner stone?
Sic.
Why, what of that?
Men.
If it be possible for you to displace it, with
your little finger, there is some hope the ladies of Rome,
especially his mother, may prevail with him. But I
say there is no hope in't; our throats are sentenc'd,
and stay upon execution.
Sic.
Is't possible that so short a time can alter the
condition of a man?
Men.
There is difference between a grub and a butterfly;
yet your butterfly was a grub; this Martius is
grown from man to dragon: he has wings; he's more
than a creeping thing.
Sic.
He lov'd his mother, dearly.
Men.
So did he me; and he no more remembers
his mother now, than an eight years old horse. The
tartness of his face sours ripe grapes. When he
walks, he moves like an engine, and the ground
shrinks before his treading. He is able to pierce a
corslet, with his eye: talks like a knell, and his hum
is a battery. He sits in his state, as a thing made for
Alexander. What he bids be done, is finish'd with
his bidding. He wants nothing of a god, but eternity,
and a heaven to throne in.
Sic.
Yes, mercy, if you report him truly.
Men.
I paint him in the character. Mark what
mercy his mother shall bring from him; there is no
more mercy in him, than there is milk in a male
tyger; that shall our poor city find; and all this is
long of you.
Sic.
The gods be good unto us!
Men.
No, in such a case the gods will not be good
unto us. When we banish'd him, we respected not
them: and he, returning to break our necks, they
respect not us.
-- 306 --
Enter Messenger.
Mes.
Sir, if you'd save your life, fly to your house;
The Plebeians have got your fellow-tribune,
And hale him up and down; all swearing, if
The Roman ladies bring not comfort home,
They'll give him death by inches.
Enter another Messenger.
Sic.
What's the news?
Mes.
Good news, good news, the ladies have prevail'd,
The Volscians are dislodg'd, and Martius gone:
A merrier day did never yet greet Rome;
No, not th' expulsion of the Tarquins.
Sic.
Friend,
Art certain this is true? is it most certain?
Mes.
As certain as I know the sun is fire:
Where have you lurk'd, that you make doubt of it?
Ne'er through an arch so hurried the blown tide,
As the recomforted through th' gates.
Why, hark you;
[Trumpets and shouts.
The trumpets, and the shouting Romans
Make the sun dance. Hark you.
[A shout within.
Men.
This is good news?
I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia
Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians,
A city full: of tribunes, such as you,
A sea and land full. You've pray'd well, to-day:
This morning, for ten thousand of your throats,
I'd not have given a doit. Hark how they joy.
[Sound still, with the shouts.
Sic.
First, the gods bless you, for your tidings! next,
Accept my thankfulness.
Mes.
Sir, we have all great cause to give great thanks.
Sic.
They're near the city?
Mes.
Almost at point to enter.
Sic.
We'll meet them, and help the joy.
[Exeunt.
-- 307 --
John Bell [1774], Bell's Edition of Shakespeare's Plays, As they are now performed at the Theatres Royal in London; Regulated from the Prompt Books of each House By Permission; with Notes Critical and Illustrative; By the Authors of the Dramatic Censor (Printed for John Bell... and C. Etherington [etc.], York) [word count] [S10401].