Volu.
Whence is it, Tullus, that our arms are stopt,
Here on the borders of the Roman state?
Why sleeps that spirit, whose heroic ardour
Urg'd you to break the truce, and pour'd our host,
From all th' united cantons of the Volscians,
On their unguarded frontier? Such designs
Brook not an hour's delay; their whole success
Depends on instant vigorous execution.

Auf.
O, my Volusius! thou, who art a soldier,
A try'd and brave one too, say, in thy heart
Dost thou not scorn me? thou, who saw'st me bend
Beneath the half-spent thunder of a foe,
Warm from the conquest of Corioli.

Volu.
True valour, Tullus,
Lies in the mind, the never-yielding purpose;
Nor minds the blind award of giddy fortune.

Auf.
My soul, my friend, my soul is all on fire!
Thirst of revenge consumes me! the revenge
Of generous emulation, not of hatred.
This happy Roman, this proud Marcius haunts me.
Each troubled night, when slaves and captives sleep,

Forgetful of their chains, I, in my dreams,
Anew am vanquish'd; and, beneath his sword
With horror sinking, feel a ten-fold death,
The death of honour. But I will redeem—
Yes, Marcius, I will yet redeem my fame.
To face thee once again is the great purpose
For which alone I live.—Till then, how slow,
How tedious lags the time! while shame corrodes me,
With many a bitter thought; and injur'd honour,
Sick and desponding, preys upon itself.
Ha! why this haste? You look alarm'd. Enter Volscian Officer.

Off.
My Lord,
One of exalted port, his visage hid,
Has plac'd himself beneath the statue of
The mighty Mars, and there, majestic, stands
In solemn silence.

Auf.
Did you not ask him who, and what he was?

Off.
My Lord, I could not speak; I felt appall'd,
As if the presence of some God had struck me.

Auf.
Come, dastard, let me find this man of terrors. [Exeunt.

SCENE II. A Hall—with the Statue of Mars. Marcius, discovered as described above. Enter Aufidius.

Auf.
Illustrious stranger—for thy high demeanour
Bespeaks thee such—who art thou? what is thy name?

Mar.
A name unmusical to Volscian ears,
And harsh in sound to thine.—Dost thou not know me?

Auf.
Thy face
Bears a command in't: though thy tackle's torn,
Thou shew'st a noble vessel; what's thy name?

Mar.
My name is Caius Marcius, who hath done
To thee particularly, and to all the Volscians,
Great hurt and mischief; thereto witness may
My sirname, Coriolanus.
The cruelty and envy of the people,
Permitted by our dastard Nobles,
Have whoop'd me out of Rome. Now this extremity
Hath brought me to thy hearth. If thou hast
A heart of wreak in thee, that will revenge
Thine own particular wrongs, and stop those maims
Of shame seen through thy country, speed thee straight

And make my misery serve thy turn: so use it;
For I will fight
Against my canker'd country, with the spleen
Of all the under fiends. But if so be
Thou dar'st not this, and that to prove more fortunes
Thou'rt tir'd; then, in a word, I also am,
Longer to live, most weary; and present
My throat to thee,
Which not to cut, would shew thee but a fool,
Since I have ever followed thee with hate,
Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country's breast,
And cannot live, but to thy shame, unless
It be to do thee service.

Auf.
Oh, Marcius, Marcius,
Each word thou'st spoke hath weeded from my heart
A root of ancient envy. Let me twine
Mine arms about that body, where against
My grained ash an hundred times hath broke
And scar'd the moon with splinters: here I clip
The anvil of my sword, and do contest
As hotly and as nobly with thy love,
As ever in ambitious strength I did
Contend against thy valour.

Mar.
You bless me, gods!

Auf.
Therefore, most absolute Sir, if thou wilt have
The leading of thine own revenges, take
One half of my commission, and set down,

As best thou art experienced, since thou know'st
Thy country's strength and weakness, thine own ways;
Whether to knock against the gates of Rome,
Or rudely visit them in parts remote,
To fright them, ere destroy. But come, come in,
Let me commend thee first to those that shall
Say yea to thy desires. A thousand welcomes,
And more a friend, than e'er an enemy:
Yet, Marcius, that was much. Your hand; most welcome! [Exeunt. SCENE III. A Street in Rome. Enter Sicinius and Brutus.

Sic.

We hear not of him, neither need we fear; his remedies are tame:

Bru.

We stood to't in good time. Is this Menenius?

Sci.

'Tis he, 'tis he: O, he is grown most kind of late. Hail, Sir!

Men

Hail to you both!

Sic.

Your Coriolanus is not much miss'd, but with his friends; the commonwealth doth stand, and would do, were he more angry at it.

Men.

All's well, and might have been much better, could he have temporiz'd.

Sic.
Where is he, hear you?

Men.
Nay, I hear nothing:
His mother and his wife hear nothing from him.

Bru.
There is a slave, whom we have put in prison,
Reports the Volscians, with two several powers,
Are entred in the Roman territories,
And with the deepest malice of the war,
Destroy what lies before 'em.

Men.
'Tis Aufidius,
Who hearing of our Marcius' banishment,
Thrusts forth his horns again into the world;
Which were in-shell'd, when Marcius stood for Rome,
And durst not once peep out. Enter a Roman Officer.

Off.
The nobles in great earnestness are going
All to the senate-house; some news is come
That turns their countenances.

Sic.
'Tis this slave:
Go scourge him 'fore the people's eyes: his raising!
Nothing but his report!

Off.
Yes, worthy Sir,
The slave's report is seconded, and more,
More fearful is delivered.

Sic.
What more fearful!

Off.
It is spoke freely out of many mouths,
How probable I do not know, that Marcius
Join'd with Aufidius, leads a power 'gainst Rome.

Sic.
This is most likely!

Bru.
Rais'd only, that the weaker sort may wish
Good Marcius home again.

Sic.
The very trick on't.

Men.
This is unlikely.
He and Aufidius can no more atone,
Than violentest contrarieties. Let's to the senate-house. [Exeunt. SCENE IV. A Wood. Enter Marcius, Aufidius, Volusius, and Soldiers.

Mar.
No more—I merit not thy lavish praise,
True, we have driven the Roman legions back;
Defeated and disgrac'd—but what is done?
Nothing, ye Volces—
Come on, my brave companions of the war,
Come, let us finish, at one mighty stroke,
The toil of lab'ring fate—we will, or perish—
While, noble Tullus, you protect the camp,
I with my troops, all chosen men of valour,
And well approv'd, to-day will storm the city. [Trumpet sounds a parley. Enter a Volscian Officer.

Off.
My Lord, a herald is arriv'd from Rome,
To say, a deputation from the senate,
Attended by the ministers of Heaven,
A venerable train of priests and flamens,
Is on the way, address'd to you.

Mar.
To me!
What can this message mean!—stand to your arms,
Ye Volscian troops; and let these Romans pass
Betwixt the lowring frowns of double files.
What! do they think me such a milky boy,
To pay my vengeance with a few soft words?

Come, fellow soldiers, Tullus, come, and see
If I betray the honours you have done me. [Exit with a train of Volscian officers.

Volu.
Are we not, Tullus, failing in our duty,
Not to attend our general?

Auf.
How! what said'st thou?

Volu.
Methought, my Lord, his parting orders were,
We should attend the triumph now preparing
O'er all his foes at once—Romans and Volscians!
Come, we shall give offence.

Auf. (Aside.)
His words are daggers to my heart: I feel
Their truth, but am ashamed to own my folly.

Volu.
O shame! O infamy! the thought consumes me.
To see a Roman
Borne on our shoulders to immortal fame:
Just in the happy moment that decided
The long dispute of ages, that for which
Our gen'rous ancestors had toil'd and bled,
To see him then step in and steal our glory!
O, that we first had perish'd all! a people
Who cannot find in their own proper force
Their own protection, are not worth the saving!

Auf.
It must have way! I will no more suppress it.—
Know, then, my valiant friend, no less than thee,
His conduct hurts me, and upbraids my folly,
I wake as from a dream. What dæmon mov'd me:

What doating generosity, to exalt him
To the same level, nay above myself;
To yield him the command of half my troops!
That, that was madness,
Was weak, was mean, unworthy of a man!—
How shall I from this labyrinth escape?
Must it then be! what cruel genius dooms me,
In war or peace, to creep beneath his fortune?

Volu.
That genius is thyself. If thou canst bear
The very thought of stooping to this Roman,
Thou from that moment art his vassal, Tullus,
Ay, that thou dost acknowledge, parent nature
Has form'd him thy superior. But if fix'd
Upon the base of manly resolution,
Thou say'st—I will be free!—I will command!—
I and my country!—then—O, never doubt it—
We shall find means to crush this vain intruder;
Even I myself—this hand—nay, hear me, Tullus,
'Tis is not yet come to that, that last resource.
I do not say we should employ the dagger,
While other, better means are in our power.

Auf.
No, my Volusius, fortune will not drive us,
Or I am much deceived, to that extreme:
We shall not want the strongest fairest plea,
To give a solemn sanction to his fate.
He will betray himself. Whate'er his rage
Of passion talks, a weakness for his country
Sticks in his soul, and he is still a Roman.
Soon shall we see him tempted to the brink
Of this sure precipice—then down, at once,

Without remorse, we hurl him to perdition! [Trumpet.
But hark, the trumpet calls us to a scene
I should detest, if not from hope we thence
May gather matter to mature our purpose. [Exeunt. SCENE V. A Street in Rome. Enter Menenius, meeting Brutus and Sicinius.

Men.
Oh, you have made good work.

Bru.
What news? what news?

Sic.
Pray now the news?

Men.
You've made good work,
You and your apron-men; that stood so much
Upon the voice of occupation, and
The breath of garlick-eaters.

Sic.
We're all undone, unless
The noble man have mercy.

Men.
Who shall ask it?
The tribunes cannot do't for shame; the people
Deserve such pity of him, as the wolf
Does of the shepherd.
If he were putting to my house the brand
That would consume it, I have not the face
To say, Beseech you, cease. You've made fair hands;
You and your crafts! you've crafted fair! Enter all the Citizens.
Here come the clusters—You are they
That made the air unwholsome, when you cast

Your stinking, greasy caps, in hooting, at
Coriolanus's exile. Now he's coming,
And not a hair upon a soldier's head,
Which will not prove a whip: as many coxcombs
As you threw caps up, will he tumble down,
And pay you for your voices. 'Tis no matter,
If he should burn us all into one coal,
We have deserv'd it.

3 Cit.
For mine own part,
When I said banish him, I said 'twas pity.

2 Cit.
And so did I.

1 Cit.

And so did I; and to say the truth, so did very many of us; that we did, we did for the best; and tho' we willingly consented to his banishment, yet it was against our will.

Men.
Y'are goodly things; you voices!—
You have made you good work,
You and your cry.
But here's Cominius, return'd from the deputation. Enter Cominius, and four Senators.
Have you prevailed? Will he have mercy?
Has Rome any hopes? How did he receive you?

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 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.

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 countryman.

Men.
No: I'll not meddle.

Sic.
Pray you go to him.

Men.
What should I do?

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

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 gaoler to his pity. I kneel'd before him,
'Twas very faintly he said, Rise: dismissed 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.

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.

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 Marcius 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. 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.

1 Cit.

O doleful tidings!

2 Cit.

O woeful day!

3 Cit.

What will become of us?

1 Cit.

Let us seize the two tribunes that did banish him, and throw them down the Tarpeian rock.

Sic. Bru.

O, good Menenius, save us, stand our friend.

Men.

Not I; they may hang, drown, burn, or break your worthless necks from the rock, 'tis all one to me.

Cits.
Away with them.

Com
Hear me, fellow citizens!
Suspend your anger till you hear
How the entreaties of his mother, wife,
And our most noble matrons, work upon him.
They yet may bring us peace.

Cits.
We will.

Com.
The Roman Gods prosper their embassy. [Exeunt. Ene of the Fourth Act.

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