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.

^{8 note}

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 Empiric, and to this preservative of no better report 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 ^{9 note}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 outdone 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. [To the Tribunes.] Marcius is coming home. He has more cause to be proud.—Where is he wounded?

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. ^{1 note}
He receiv'd in the repulse of Tarquin seven hurts i' th' body.

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.

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 lie; ^{2 note}Which being advanc'd, declines, and then men die.