Mar.
Let them pull all about mine ears, present me
Death on the wheel, or at wild horses heels,
Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock,
That the precipitation might down stretch'd
Below the beam of sight, yet will I still
Be thus to them.

Vol.
But hear me, Marcius.

Mar.
I muse, my mother
Does not approve me further, (I talk of you) [To his mother.
Why did you wish me milder? would you have me
False to my nature? rather say, I play
Truly the man I am.

Vol.
Oh, Sir, Sir, Sir,
I would have had you put your power well on,
Before you had worn it out.

Mar.
Why let it go—

Vol.
You might have been enough the man you are,
With striving less to be so. Lesser had been
The thwartings of your disposition, if
You had not shew'd them how you were dispos'd,
Ere they lack'd power to cross you.

Mar.
Let them hang.

Vol.
Ay, and burn too. Enter Menenius.

Men.
Come, come, you've been too rough something too rough:
You must return and mend it.

Vol.
Pray be counsell'd;
I have a heart as little apt as yours,
But yet a brain that leads my use of anger,
To better vantage.

Men.
Well said, noble woman:
Before he should thus stoop to th' herd, but that
The violent fit o'th' times craves it as physic,
For the whole state, I'd put mine armour on,
Which I can scarcely bear.

Mar.
What must I do?

Men.
Return to th' tribunes.

Mar.
Well, what then? what then?

Men.
Repent what you have spoke.

Mar.
For them! I cannot do it for the Gods,
Must I then do't to them!

Vol.
You are not absolute,
Tho' therein you can never be too noble,
But when extremities speak. I've heard you say,
Honour and policy, like unsever'd friends,
I'th' war do grow together: grant that, and tell me,
In peace what each of them by th' other loses,
That they combine not there?

Mar.
Tush!—tush!—

Men.
A good demand.

Mar.
Why force you this?

Vol.
Because it lies on you to speak to th' people:
I would dissemble with my nature, where
My fortunes and my friends at stake requir'd
I should do so in honour. I pr'ythee,
Now my son, go to them; say to them,
Thou art their soldier, and being bred in broils,
Hast not the soft way, which thou dost confess
Were fit for thee to use, as them to claim,
In asking their good loves, but thou wilt frame
Thyself (forsooth) hereafter theirs so far,
As thou hast power and person.

Men.
This but done,
Ev'n as she speaks, why, all their hearts were yours:
For they have pardons, being ask'd, as free,
As words to little purpose. Enter Cominius.
Here is Cominius.

Com.
I have been i'th' market-place, and, Sir, 'tis fit
You have strong party, or defend yourself,
By calmness, or by absence: all's in anger.

Men.
Only fair speech.

Com.
I think 'twill serve, if he
Can thereto frame his spirit.

Vol.
He must and will:
Pr'ythee, now, say you will, and go about it.

Mar.
Must I go shew them my unbarbed sconce?
Must my base tongue give to my noble heart
A lie, that it must bear? well, I will do't:
Yet were there but this single pelt to lose,
This mould of Marcius, they to dust should grind it,
And throw't against the wind. To th' market-place!
You've put me now to such a part, which never
I shall discharge to th' life.

Com.
Come, come, we'll prompt you.

Vol.
Ay, pr'ythee now, sweet son; as thou hast said
My praises made thee first a soldier; so
To have my praise for this, perform a part
Thou hast not done before.

Mar.
Well, I must do't;
Away, my disposition, and possess me
Some harlot's spirit; my throat of war be turn'd,
Which quired with my drum, into a pipe
Small as an eunuch's, or the virgin voice
That babies lulls asleep! A beggar's tongue
Make motion through my lips, and my arm'd knees,
Which bow'd but in my stirrup, bend like his
That hath received an alms! I will not do't,
Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth,
And by my body's action teach my mind
A most inherent baseness.

Vol.
At thy choice, then:
To beg of thee, it is my more dishonour,
Than thou of them. Come all to ruin, let
Thy mother rather feel thy pride, than fear
Thy dangerous stoutness: for I mock at death,
With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list.
Thy valiantness was mine, thou had'st it from me;
But own thy pride thyself.

Mar.
Pray be content:
Mother I'm going to the market-place:
Chide me no more. I'll mountebank their loves,
Cog their hearts from them, and come home belov'd
Of all the trades in Rome. Look, I am going:
Commend me to my wise. I'll return consul,
Or never trust to what my tongue can do
I'th' way of flattery, further.

Vol.
Do your will.

Com.
Arm yourself
To answer mildly; for they are prepar'd
With accusations, as I hear, more strong
Than are upon you yet.

Mar.
The word is, mildly—pray you, let us go—
Let them accuse me by invention, I
Will answer in mine own honour.

Men.
Ay—but mildly!

Mar.
Well, mildly be it, then—mildly! Exeunt.

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