1 Ser.
Wine, wine, wine! what service is here?
I think, our fellows are asleep. [Exit. Enter another Serving-man.

2 Ser.

Where's Cotus? my Master calls for him: Cotus.

Cor.
A goodly house; the feast smells well; but I
Appear not like a guest. Enter the first Serving-man.

1 Ser.

What would you have, friend? whence are you? here's no place for you: pray, go to the door.

Cor.

I have deserv'd no better entertainment, in being Coriolanus.

2 Ser.

Whence are you, Sir? has the porter his eyes in his head, that he gives entrance to such companions? pray, get you out.

Cor.

Away!—

2 Ser.

Away?—get you away.

Cor.

Now thou'rt troublesom.

2 Ser.

Are you so brave? I'll have you talk'd with anon.

3 Ser.

What Fellow's this?

1 Ser.

A strange one as ever I look'd on: I cannot get him out o'th' house; pr'ythee, call my Master to him.

3 Ser.

What have you to do here, Fellow? pray you, avoid the house.

Cor.

Let me but stand, I will not hurt your hearth.

3 Ser.

What are you?

Cor.

A Gentleman.

3 Ser.

A marvellous poor one.

Cor.

True; so I am.

3 Ser.

Pray you, poor Gentleman, take up some other station, here's no place for you; pray you, avoid: come.

Cor.

Follow your function, go and batten on cold bits.

3 Ser.

What, will you not? pr'ythee, tell my Master, what a strange Guest he has here.

2 Ser.

And I shall.

3 Ser.

Where dwell'st thou?

Cor.

Under the Canopy.

3 Ser.

Under the Canopy?

Cor.

Ay.

3 Ser.

Where's that?

Cor.

I'th' City of Kites and Crows.

3 Ser.

I'th' City of Kites and Crows? what an Ass it is! then thou dwell'st with Daws too?

Cor.

No, I serve not thy Master.

3 Ser.

How, Sir! do you meddle with my Master?

Cor.

Ay, 'tis an honester service, than to meddle with thy Mistress: thou prat'st, and prat'st; serve with thy trencher: hence.

Enter Aufidius, with a Serving-man.

Auf.

Where is this Fellow?

2 Ser.

Here, Sir; I'd have beaten him like a dog, but for disturbing the Lords within.

Auf.
Whence com'st thou? what would'st thou? thy name?
Why speak'st not? speak, Man: what's thy name?

Cor.
If, Tullus, yet thou know'st me not, and seeing me,
Dost not yet take me for the Man I am,
Necessity commands me name my self.

Auf.
What is thy name?

Cor.
A name unmusical to Volscian ears,
And harsh in sound to thine.

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

Cor.
Prepare thy brow to frown; know'st thou me yet?

Auf.
I know thee not; thy name?

Cor.
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 painful service,
The extream dangers, and the drops of blood
Shed for my thankless Country, are requited
But with that Sirname: A good memory,
And witness of the malice and displeasure
Which thou should'st bear me, only that name remains.
The cruelty and envy of the People,
Permitted by our dastard Nobles, who
Have all forsook me, hath devour'd the rest,
And suffer'd me by th' voice of slaves to be
Hoop'd out of Rome. Now, this extremity
Hath brought me to thy hearth, not out of hope
(Mistake me not) to save my life; for if
I had fear'd Death, of all the men i'th' world

I'd have avoided thee. But in meer spite
To be full quit of those my Banishers,
Stand I before thee here: then if thou hast
A heart of wreak in thee, that wilt 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,
That my revengeful services may prove
As benefits to thee. 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, and to thy ancient malice;
Which not to cut, would shew thee but a fool,
Since I have ever follow'd 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. If Jupiter
Should from yon cloud speak to me things divine,
And say, 'tis true; I'd not believe them more
Than thee, all-noble Marcius. 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 anvile 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. Know thou first,
I lov'd the Maid I married; never Man
Sigh'd truer breath: but, that I see thee here,
Thou noble thing, more dances my rapt heart,
Than when I first my wedded Mistress saw
Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars! I tell thee,
We have a Power on foot; and I had purpose
Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn,

Or lose my arm for't: thou hast beat me out
Twelve several times, and I have nightly since
Dream't of encounters 'twixt thy self and me:
We have been down together in my sleep,
Unbuckling helms, fisting each other's throat,
And wak'd half dead with nothing. Worthy Marcius,
Had we no quarrel else to Rome, but that
Thou art thence banish'd, we would muster all
From twelve to seventy; and pouring war
Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome,
Like a bold flood o'er-bear. O come, go in,
And take our friendly Senators by th' hands,
Who now are here, taking their leaves of me,
Who am prepar'd against your Territories,
Though not for Rome it self.

Cor.
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 experienc'd, 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. Enter two Servants.

1 Ser.

Here's a strange alteration.

2 Ser.

By my hand, I had thought to have strucken him with a cudgel, and yet my mind gave me, his clothes made a false report of him.

1 Ser.

What an arm he has! he turn'd me about with his finger and his thumb, as one would set up a top.

2 Ser.

Nay, I knew by his face that there was something in him. He had, Sir, a kind of face, methought— I cannot tell how to term it.

1 Ser.

He had so: looking, as it were—would I were hanged, but I thought there was more in him than I could think.

2 Ser.

So did I, I'll be sworn: he is simply the rarest man i'th' world.

1 Ser.

I think, he is; but a greater Soldier than he, you wot one.

2 Ser.

Who, my Master?

1 Ser.

Nay, it's no matter for that.

2 Ser.

Worth six on him.

1 Ser.

Nay, not so neither; but I take him to be the greater Soldier.

2 Ser.

Faith, look you, one cannot tell how to say that; for the defence of a Town, our General is excellent.

1 Ser.

Ay, and for an assault too.

3 Ser.

Oh, slaves, I can tell you news; news, you rascals.

Both.

What, what, what? let's partake.

3 Ser.

I would not be a Roman, of all nations; I had as lieve be a condemn'd man.

Both.

Wherefore? wherefore?

3 Ser.

Why, here's he that was wont to thwack our General, Caius Marcius.

1 Ser.

Why do you say, thwack our General?

3 Ser.

I do not say, thwack our General; but he was always good enough for him.

2 Ser.

Come, we are fellows and friends; he was ever too hard for him, I have heard him say so himself.

1 Ser.

He was too hard for him directly, to say the troth on't: before Corioli, he scocht him and notcht him like a carbonado.

2 Ser.

And, had he been cannibally given, he might have broil'd and eaten him too.

1 Ser.

But, more of thy news;—

3 Ser.

Why, he is so made on here within, as if he were Son and Heir to Mars: set at upper end o'th' table; no question ask'd him by any of the Senators, but they stand bald before him. Our General himself makes a Mistress of him, sanctifies himself with's hands, and turns up the white o'th' eye to his discourse. But the bottom of the news is, our General is cut i'th' middle, and but one half of what he was yesterday. For the Other has half, by the Intreaty and Grant of the whole table. He'll go, he says, and sowle the porter of Rome gates by th' ears. He will mow down all before him, and leave his passage poll'd.

2 Ser.

And he's as like to do't as any man I can imagine.

3 Ser.

Do't! he will do't: for look you, Sir, he has as many friends as enemies; which friends, Sir, as it were, durst not (look you, Sir) shew themselves (as we term it) his friends, whilst he's in directitude.

1 Ser.

Directitude! what's that?

3 Ser.

But when they shall see, Sir, his Crest up again, and the man in blood, they will out of their burroughs (like conies after rain) and revel all with him.

1 Ser.

But when goes this forward?

3 Ser.

To morrow, to day, presently, you shall have the drum struck up this afternoon: 'tis, as it were, a parcel of their feast, and to be executed ere they wipe their lips.

2 Ser.

Why, then we shall have a stirring world again: this peace is worth nothing, but to rust iron, encrease tailors, and breed ballad-makers.

1 Ser.

Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace, as far as day does night; it's sprightly, waking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy, mull'd, deaf, sleepy, insensible, a getter of more bastard children than war's a destroyer of men.

2 Ser.

'Tis so; and as war in some sort may be said to be a ravisher, so it cannot be denied, but peace is a great maker of cuckolds.

1 Ser.

Ay, and it makes men hate one another.

3 Ser.

Reason, because they then less need one another: the wars, for my mony. I hope, to see Romans as cheap as Volscians.

They are rising, they are rising.

Both.

In, in, in, in.