Bru.
Put him to choler streight; he hath been us'd
Ever to conquer, and to have no word
Of contradiction. Being once chaf'd, he cannot
Be rein'd again to temp'rance; then he speaks
What's in his heart; and that is there, which works
With us to break his neck. Enter Marcius, Menenius, and Cominius.

Sic.
Well, here he comes.

Men.
Calmly I do beseech you.

Mar.
The honour'd Gods
Keep Rome in safety; and the chairs of justice
Supply with worthy men; plant love amongst you;
Throng our large temples with the shews of peace;
And not our streets with war!

Men.
Amen! A noble wish.

Sic.
Draw near, ye people.

Mar.
Shall I be charg'd no further than this present?
Must all determine here?

Sic.
I do demand,
If you submit you to the people's voices,
Allow their officers, and are content

To suffer lawful censure for such faults,
As shall be proved upon you.

Mar.
I am content.

Men.
Lo, citizens; he says he is content:
The warlike service he has done, consider;
Think on the wounds his body bears, which shew
Like graves i'th' holy church-yard.

Mar.
Scratches with briars—
What is the matter,
That being past for consul with full voice,
I'm so dishonour'd, that the very hour,
You take it off again?

Sic.
Answer to us.

Mar.
Say, then: 'tis true, I ought so.

Sic.
We charge you, that you have contrived to take
From Rome all season'd office, and to wind
Your self unto a power tyrannical;
For which you are a traitor to the people.

Mar.
How? traitor?

Men.
Nay, temperately: your promise.

Mar.
The fires i'th' lowest hell fold in the people!
Call me their traitor! thou injurious tribune!
Within thine eyes sate twenty thousand deaths,
In thy hands clutch'd as many millions, in
Thy lying tongue both numbers; I would say,
Thou liest, unto thee, with a voice as free,
As I do pray the gods.

Sic.
Mark you this, people?

All.
To the rock with him.

Sic.
Peace:
We need not put new matter to his charge:
What you have seen him do, and heard him speak,
Deserves th' extremest death.

Bru.
But since he hath
Serv'd well for Rome—

Mar.
What do you prate of service?

Bru.
I talk of that, that know it.

Mar.
You?—

Men.
Is this the promise that you made your mother?

Com.
Know, I pray you—

Mar.
I'll know no further:
Let them pronounce the steep Tarpeian death,
Vagabond exile, flaying, pent to linger,
But with a grain a-day, I would not buy
Their mercy at the price of one fair word,
Nor check my courage for what they can give,
To hav't with saying, Good-morrow.

Sic.
For that he has
(As much as in him lies) from time to time,
Envy'd against the people, seeking means
To pluck away their power; has now, at last,
Giv'n hostile strokes, and that not only in presence
Of dreaded justice, but on the ministers
That do distribute it; in the name o'th' people,
And in the power of us, the tribunes, we
Banish him our city.

Com.
Hear me, my masters, and my common friends—

Bru.
There's no more to be said, we banish him,
As enemy to the people and his country.
It shall be so.

All.
It shall be so, it shall be so.

Mar.
Ye common cry of curs, whose breath I hate,
As reek o'th' rotten fens; whose loves I prize,
As the dead carcases of unburied men,
That do corrupt my air; I banish you.
And here remain with your uncertainty!
Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts,
Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes,
Fan you into despair! have the power still
To banish your defenders, 'till at length
Your ignorance deliver you,
As most abated captives, to some nation
That won you without blows! Despising then,
For you, the city, thus I turn my back;
There is a world elsewhere— [Exeunt. [The people shout. End of the Third Act.

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