Brutus.
Men.
The Augur tells me we shall have news, to-night.
Bru.
Good or bad?
Men.
Not according to the prayer of the people,
for they love not Marcius.
Sic.
Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.
Men.
Pray you, whom does the wolf love?
Sic.
The lamb.
Men.
Ay, to devour him, as the hungry plebeians
would the noble Marcius. Tell me one
thing that I shall ask you.
Both.
Well, Sir.
-- 22 --
Men.
In what enormity is Marcius poor, that
you two have not in abundance?
Bru.
He's poor in no one fault, but stor'd with all.
Sic.
Especially in pride.
Bru.
And topping all others in boast.
Men.
This is strange, now! do you two know
how you are censur'd here in the city, I mean of
us o'th' right-hand file, do you?
Bru.
Why—how are we censur'd?
Men.
Because you talk of pride now, will you
not be angry?
Both.
Well, well, Sir, well.
Men.
You blame Marcius for being proud.
Bru.
We do it not alone, Sir.
Men.
I know you can do very little alone—Oh
that you would turn your eyes towards the napes of
your necks, and make but an interior survey of
your good selves! Oh that you could!
Bru.
What then, Sir?
Men.
Why then you should discover a brace of
as unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates,
alias fools, as any in Rome.
Sic.
Menenius, you are known well enough too.
Men.
I am known to be a humorous patrician,
and one that loves a cup of hot wine, with not a
drop allaying Tiber in't: What I think, I utter,
and spend my malice with my breath.
Bru.
Come, Sir, come, we know you, well
enough.
-- 23 --
Men.
You know neither me, yourselves, nor
any thing; you are ambitious for poor knaves caps
and legs: you wear out a good wholesome fore-noon,
in hearing a cause between an orange-wife
and a fosset-seller, and then adjourn a controversy
of three-pence, to a second day of audience. You
are a pair of strange ones.
Bru.
Come, come, you are well understood to
be a perfecter giber for the table, than a necessary
bencher in the Capitol.
Men.
Our very priests must become mockers,
if they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects, as
you are; when you speak best unto the purpose,
it is not worth the wagging of your beards, and
your beards deserve not so honourable a grave as
to stuff a botcher's cushion, or to be intomb'd in
an ass's pack-saddle. Yet you must be saying,
Marcius is proud; who, in a cheap estimation, is
worth all your predecessors since Deucalion,
though peradventure some of the best of them
were hereditary hangmen. I will be bold to take
my leave of you.
[Brutus and Sicinius, stand aside.
Enter Volumnia, Virgilia and Valeria.
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 Marcius
approaches, for the love of Juno let's go.
Men.
Ha! Martius coming home!
-- 24 --
Vol.
Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous
approbation.
Men.
Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee—
hoo, Marcius coming home!
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. 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;
bring he a victory in his pocket, 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?
-- 25 --
Vol.
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.
Val.
In truth there's wondrous things spoke of
him.
Men.
Wondrous! ay, I warrant you, and not
without his true purchasing.
Vir.
The God's grant them true!
Val.
True?
[Sicinius and Brutus, come forward.
Men.
True? I'll be sworn they are true.
Where is he wounded? God save their good
worships! Marcius is coming home: he has more
cause to be proud:—where is he wounded?
Val.
I'th' shoulder and 'th' left arm; 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.
Vol.
He with his single arm subdu'd Corioli.
His sword, Death's stamp,
Where it did mark, it took from face to foot:
He was a thing of blood, whose every motion
Was tim'd with dying cries—
Where'er he went, before him fortune flew,
While victory upon his dreaded brow
-- 26 --
Sat thron'd, and joyful clapp'd her silver wings—
Three times mine eagle singled out Aufidius,
And thrice the Volscians sunk beneath his thunder,
Bending the knee, as 'twere in adoration.
[Florish of trumpets.
Hark! hark!
These are the ushers of Marcius—before him
He carries noise; behind him he leaves tears.
[Exeunt.
John P. Kemble [1789], Coriolanus; or, the Roman matron. A tragedy. Altered from Shakespeare. Printed exactly conformable to the representation at the Theatre Royal, Drury-Lane. With the order of the ovation. By permission of the managers, under the insepection of James Wrighten, Prompter (Printed for J. Christie [etc.], London) [word count] [S39200].
