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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