Hail, noble Marcius!

Cor.
Thanks. What's the matter, you dissentious rogues,
That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion,
Make yourselves scabs?

2 Cit.
We have ever your good word.

Cor.
He, that will give good words to thee, will flatter
Beneath abhorring. What would you have, ye Curs,
^{2 note}

The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you,
Where he should find you lions, finds you hares,
Where foxes, geese; you are no surer, no,
Than is the coal of fire upon the ice,
Or hailstone in the Sun. Your virtue is,
To make him worthy, whose offence subdues him,
And curse that justice, did it. Who deserves Greatness,
Deserves your Hate; and your affections are
A sick man's appetite, who desires most That
Which would increase his evil. He, that depends
Upon your favours, swims with fins of lead,
And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye—Trust ye?
With every minute you do change a mind,
And call him noble, that was now your hate;
Him vile, that was your garland. What's the matter,
That in the several places of the City
You cry against the noble Senate, who,
Under the Gods, keep you in awe, which else
Would feed on one another?—What's their Seeking?

Men.
For corn at their own rates, whereof, they say,
The city is well stor'd.

Cor.
Hang 'em? They say.—
They'll sit by the fire, and presume to know
What's done i' th' Capitol; who's like to rise;

Who thrives, and who declines; side factions, and give out
Conjectural marriages; making parties strong,
And feeble such, as stand not in their Liking,
Below their cobled shoes. They say, there's Grain enough?
Would the Nobility lay aside their ruth.
And let me use my sword, ^{3 note}
I'd make a quarry
With thousands of these quarter'd Slaves, as high
As I could pitch my lance.

Men.
Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded;
For though abundantly they lack discretion,
Yet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech you,
What says the other troop?

Cor.
They are dissolv'd. Hang 'em,
They said they were an hungry, sigh'd forth Proverbs;
That hunger broke stone walls—that dogs must eat,—
That meat was made for mouths—that the Gods send not
Corn for the rich men only—With these shreds
They vented their complainings, which being answer'd,
And a Petition granted them, a strange one,
To break ^{4 note}the heart of Generosity,
And make bold Power look pale, they threw their caps
As they would hang them on the horns o' th' Moon,
Shouting their emulation.

Men.
What is granted them?

Cor.
Five Tribunes to defend their vulgar wisdoms,
Of their own choice. One's Junius Brutus,
Sicinius Velutus, and I know not—s'death,
The rabble should have first unroof'd the City,
Ere so prevail'd with me! it will in time
Win upon Power, and throw forth greater themes
For Insurrection's arguing.

Men.
This is strange.

Cor.
Go, get you home, you fragments! Enter a Messenger.

Mes.
Where's Caius Marcius?

Cor.
Here. What's the matter?

Mes.
The news is, Sir, the Volscians are in arms.

Cor.
I'm glad on't, then we shall have means to vent
Our musty superfluity. See, our best Elders—

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