Brutus.
Menenius.
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.
Bru.
He's a lamb, indeed, that baes like a bear.
Men.
He's a bear, indeed, that lives like a lamb.
You two are old men, tell me one thing that I shall
ask you.
Both.
Well, Sir;—
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 boasting.
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.
Why, 'tis no great matter; for a very little
thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience:
-- 33 --
—give your dispositions the reins, and be
angry at your pleasures; at the least, if you take it
as a pleasure to you, in being so:—you blame
Marcius for being proud.
Bru.
We do it not alone, Sir.
Men.
I know, you can do very little alone; for your
helps are many, or else your actions would grow wondrous
single; your abilities are too infant-like, for
doing much alone. You talk of pride—oh, that
you could 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 of
allaying Tiber in't: said to be something imperfect, in
favouring the first complaint; hasty and tinderlike,
upon too trivial motion: one that converses more
with the buttock of the night, than with the forehead
of the morning. What I think, I utter; and
spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two such
weals-men as you are, (I cannot call you Lycurgusses)
if the drink you give me touch my palate adversly,
I make a crooked face at it. I can't say, your Worships
have deliver'd the matter well, when I find the ass
in compound with the major part of your syllables;
and tho' I must be content to bear with those, that
say, you are reverend grave men; yet they lie deadly,
that tell you, you have good faces; if you see this in
the map of my microcosm, follows it, that I am known
well enough too? (11) note
what harm can your bisson Conspectuities
-- 34 --
glean out of this character, if I be known
well enough too?
Bru.
Come, Sir, come, we know you well enough.
Men.
You know neither me, your selves, nor any
thing; you are ambitious for poor knaves caps and
legs: you wear out a good wholesome forenoon, 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.—When you are
hearing a matter between party and party, if you
chance to be pinch'd with the cholick, you make faces
like mummers, set up the bloody flag against all patience,
and, in roaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss the
controversie bleeding, the more intangled by your
hearing: all the peace you make in their cause, is calling
both the parties knaves. You are a pair of strange
ones.
Bru.
Come, come, you are well understood to be
a perfecter gyber 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;
-- 35 --
who, in a cheap estimation,(12) note
is worth all your predecessors
since Deucalion; though, peradventure, some of
the best of them were hereditary hangmen. Good-e'en
to your Worships; more of your conversation would
infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly
Plebeians. I will be bold to take my leave of you.
[Brutus and Sicinius stand aside.
As Menenius is going out, 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! Marcius coming home?
Vol.
Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous
approbation.
Men.
Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee—
hoo, Marcius coming home!
Both.
Nay, 'tis true!
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, certain, there's 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; the most sovereign prescription in Galen is
but Emperic, and to this preservative of no better report
-- 36 --
than a horse-drench. 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; brings
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?
Vol.
Good ladies, let's go. 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 troth, there's wondrous things spoke of him.
Men.
Wondrous! ay, I warrant you, and not without
his true purchasing.
Vir.
The Gods grant them true!
Vol.
True? pow, waw.—
Men.
True? I'll be sworn, they are true. Where is
he wounded? God save your good Worships;—Marcius
is coming home; he has more cause to be proud:—
where is he wounded?
[To the Tribunes.
Vol.
I'th' shoulder, and i'th' left arm; there will be
large cicatrices to shew the people, when he shall stand
for his place. He receiv'd in the repulse of Tarquin
seven hurts i'th' body.(13) note
-- 37 --
Men.
One i'th' neck, and one too i'th' thigh; there's
nine, that I know.
Vol.
He had, before this last expedition, twenty five
wounds upon him.
Men
Now 'tis twenty seven; every gash was an enemy's
Grave. Hark, the trumpets.
[A shout and flourish.
Vol.
These are the ushers of Marcius; before him
he carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears:
Death, that dark Spirit, in's nervy arm doth lye;
Which being advanc'd, declines, and then men die.
Trumpets sound. Enter Cominius the General, and Titus Lartius; between them Coriolanus, crown'd with an oaken garland, with Captains and soldiers, and a herald.
Her.
Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight
Within Corioli gates, where he hath won,
With fame, a name to Caius Marcius.
Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!
[Sound. Flourish.
All.
Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!
Cor.
No more of this, it does offend my heart;
Pray now, no more.
Com.
Look, Sir, your mother,—
Cor.
Oh!
You have, I know, petition'd all the Gods
For my prosperity.
[Kneels.
Vol.
Nay, my good soldier, up:
My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and
By deed-atchieving honour newly nam'd,
What is it, Coriolanus, must I call thee?
But oh, thy wife—
Cor.
My gracious silence, hail!
Would'st thou have laugh'd, had I come coffin'd home,
That weep'st to see me triumph? ah, my Dear,
Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear,
And mothers that lack sons.
Men.
Now the Gods crown thee!
-- 38 --
Cor.
And live you yet? O my sweet Lady, pardon.
[To Valeria.
Vol.
I know not where to turn. O welcome home;
And welcome, General! y'are welcome all.
Men.
A hundred thousand welcomes: I could weep,
And I could laugh, I'm light and heavy;—welcome!
A curse begin at very root on's heart,
That is not glad to see thee.—You are three,
That Rome should dote on: yet, by the faith of men,
We've some old crab-trees here at home, that will not
Be grafted to your relish. Welcome, Warriors!
We call a nettle, but a nettle; and
The faults of fools, but folly.
Com.
Ever right.
Cor.
Menenius, ever, ever.
Her.
Give way there, and go on.
Cor.
Your hand, and yours.
Ere in our own house I do shade my head,
The good Patricians must be visited;
(14) note
From whom I have receiv'd not only Greetings,
But, with them, Charge of honours.
Vol.
I have lived,
To see inherited my very wishes,
And buildings of my fancy; only one thing
-- 39 --
Is wanting, which, I doubt not, but our Rome
Will cast upon thee.
Cor.
Know, good Mother, I
Had rather be their servant in my way,
Than sway with them in theirs.
Com.
On, to the Capitol.
[Flourish. Cornets.
[Exeunt in State, as before.
Brutus, and Sicinius, come forward.
Bru.
All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights
Are spectacled to see him. Your pratling nurse
Into a rapture lets her Baby cry,
While she chats him: the kitchen malkin pins
Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck,
Clambring the walls to eye him; stalls, bulks, windows,
Are smother'd up, leads fill'd, and ridges hors'd
With variable complexions; all agreeing
In earnestness to see him: seld-shown Flamins
Do press among the popular throngs, and puff
To win a vulgar station; our veil'd dames
Commit the war of white and damask, in
Their nicely-gawded cheeks, to th' wanton spoil
Of Phœbus' burning kisses; such a pother,
As if that whatsoever God, who leads him,
Were slily crept into his human powers,
And gave him graceful posture.
Sic.
On the sudden,
I warrant him Consul.
Bru.
Then our Office may,
During his Power, go sleep.
Sic.
He cannot temp'rately transport his honours,
From where he should begin and end, but will
Lose those he hath won.
Bru.
In That there's comfort.
Sic.
Doubt not,
The Commoners, for whom we stand, but they
Upon their ancient malice, will forget,
With the least cause, these his new honours; which
That he will give, make I as little question
As he is proud to do't.
-- 40 --
Bru.
I heard him swear,
Were he to stand for Consul, never would he
Appear i'th' market-place, nor on him put
The napless Vesture of Humility;
Nor shewing, as the manner is, his wounds
To th' people, beg their stinking breaths.
Sic.
'Tis right.
Bru.
It was his word: oh, he would miss it, rather
Than carry it, but by the suit o'th' Gentry,
And the desire o'th' Nobles.
Sic.
I wish no better,
Than have him hold that purpose, and to put it
In execution.
Bru.
'Tis most like, he will.
Sic.
It shall be to him then, as our good wills,
A sure destruction.
Bru.
So it must fall out
To him, or our authorities. For an end,
We must suggest the people, in what hatred
He still hath held them; that to's power he would
Have made them mules, silenc'd their Pleaders, and
Disproperty'd their freedoms: holding them,
In human action and capacity,
Of no more soul nor fitness for the world,
Than camels in their war, who have their provender
Only for bearing burthens, and sore blows
For sinking under them.
Sic.
(15) note
This, as you say, suggested
At some time, when his soaring insolence
Shall reach the people, (which time shall not want,
If he be put upon't; and that's as easie,
As to set dogs on sheep) will be the fire
To kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze
Shall darken him for ever.
-- 41 --
Enter a Messenger.
Bru.
What's the matter?
Mes.
You're sent for to the Capitol: 'tis thought,
That Marcius shall be Consul: I have seen
The dumb men throng to see him, and the blind
To hear him speak; the Matrons flung their gloves,
Ladies and Maids their scarfs and handkerchiefs,
Upon him as he pass'd; the Nobles bended
As to Jove's Statue, and the Commons made
A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts:
I never saw the like.
Bru.
Let's to the Capitol,
And carry with us ears and eyes for th' time,
But hearts for the event.
Sic.
Have with you.
[Exeunt.
-- 42 --
Lewis Theobald [1733], The works of Shakespeare: in seven volumes. Collated with the Oldest Copies, and Corrected; With notes, Explanatory and Critical; By Mr. Theobald (Printed for A. Bettesworth and C. Hitch [and] J. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S11201].
