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.

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 troublesome.

2 Ser.

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

Enter a third Servant. The first meets him.

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 wouldst 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,
Do not yet take me for the man I am,
Necessity commands me name myself.

Auf.
What is thy name?

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

Auf
Say, what is 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; ^{8 note}a good memory,
And witness of the malice and displeasure
Which thou shouldst 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
Whoop'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
^{9 note}A heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge
Thine own particular wrongs, and stop those * ^note
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 yond 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 anvil 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
Dreamt of encounters 'twixt thyself 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'erbear. 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 itself.

Cor.
You bless me, Gods!

Auf.
Therefore, most absolute Sir, if thou wilt have
The leading of thy 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.

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