Men.

The augurer 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.

^{8 note}Pray you, who 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' the 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; 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 ^{8 note}towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves! O, 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 tinder-like, upon too trivial motion: ^{9 note}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 wealsmen 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 though I must be content to bear with those that say you are reverend grave men; yet they lye 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? What harm can your ^{1 note}bisson conspectuities 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, yourselves, nor any thing. You are ambitious for poor knaves' caps and legs: ^{2 note}you wear out a good wholesome forenoon, in hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a fosset-seller; and then rejourn the 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 cholic, you make faces like mummers; ^{3 note}set up the bloody flag against all patience, and, in roaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss the controversy bleeding, the more entangled 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 giber 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 entomb'd in an ass's pack-saddle. Yet you must be saying, Marcius is proud; who, in a cheap estimation, 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 ^{4 note}herdsmen of the

beastly plebeians: I will be bold to take my leave of you.

How now, my 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, lets go.

Men.

Ha! Marcius coming home?

Vol.

Ay, worthy Menenius; and with most prosperous approbation.

Men.

^{6 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 it.

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^{7 note}, and, to this preservative, of no better report than a horse-drench. Is he not wounded? he was wont to come home wounded.

Vir.

O, no, no, no.

Vol.

O, he is wounded, I thank the gods for't.

Men.

So do I too, if it 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.

Has 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: 'an 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 ^{8 note}possess'd 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, wow.

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' the shoulder, and i' the left arm: There will be large cicatrices to shew the people, when he shall

stand for his place. ^{9 note}

Men.

One i' the neck, and one too i' the 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;

Her.
Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight
Within Corioli' gates: where he hath won,
With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these
In honour follows, Coriolanus^{2 note}:—

Welcome to Rome, renown'd Coriolanus! [Sound. Flourish.

All.
Welcome to Rome, renown'd Coriolanus!

Cor.
No more of this, it does offend my heart;
Pray now, no more.

Com.
Look, sir, your mother,—

Cor.
O!
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 O, thy wife—

Cor.
^{3 note}

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!

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;—And you are welcome all.

Men.
A hundred thousand welcomes: I could weep,
And I could laugh; I am light, and heavy. Welcome:
A curse begin at very root of's heart,
That is not glad to see thee!—You are three,
That Rome should dote on: yet, by the faith of men,
We have some old crab-trees here at home, that will not
Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors:
We call a nettle, but a nettle; and
The faults of fools, but folly.

Com.
Ever right^{4 note}


.

Cor.
Menenius, ever, ever. 9Q0910

Her.
Give way there, and go on.

Cor.
Your hand, and yours: [To his wife and mother.
Ere in our own house I do shade my head,
The good patricians must be visited;
From whom I have receiv'd not only greetings,
^{5 note}But with them change of honours.

Vol.
I have liv'd
To see inherited my very wishes,
And the buildings of my fancy:
Only there's one thing 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
^{6 note}Into a rapture lets her baby cry,
While she chats him: the kitchen malkin^{7 note}

Her richest lockram^{8 note}

Their nicely gawded cheeks, to the wanton spoil
Of Phœbus' burning kisses: such a pother,
^{2 note}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 temperately transport his honours
^{3 note}
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 them, make I as little question
^{4 note}

Bru.
I heard him swear,
Were he to stand for consul, never would he
Appear i'the market-place, nor on him put
The napless vesture^{5 note} of humility;
Nor, shewing (as the manner is) his wounds
To the people, beg their stinking breaths.

Sic.
'Tis right.

Bru.
It was his word: O, he would miss it, rather
Than carry it, but by the suit o' the gentry to him,
And the desire of the 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 will's^{6 note}
,
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 his 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 provand^{7 note}

Sic.
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 easy,
As to set dogs on sheep) will be the fire^{8 note}
To kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze
Shall darken him for ever. Enter a Messenger.

Bru.
What's the matter?

Mes.
You are 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: Matrons flung 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 ^{9 note}carry with us ears and eyes for the time,
But hearts for the event.

Sic.
Have with you. [Exeunt. SCENE II. The Capitol. Enter two Officers, to lay cushions^{1 note}.

1 Off.

Come come, they are almost here: How many stand for consulships?

2 Off.

Three, they say: but 'tis thought of every one, Coriolanus will carry it.

1 Off.

That's a brave fellow; but he's vengeance proud, and loves not the common people.

2 Off.

'Faith, there have been many great men that have flatter'd the people, who ne'er lov'd them; and there be many that they have lov'd, they know not wherefore: so that, if they love they know not why, they hate upon no better a ground: Therefore, for Coriolanus neither to care whether they love, or hate him, manifests the true knowledge he has in their disposition; and, out of his noble carelessness, lets them plainly see't.

1 Off.

If he did not care whether he had their love, or no, ^{2 note}he wav'd indifferently 'twixt doing them neither good, nor harm; but he seeks their hate with

greater devotion than they can render it him; and leaves nothing undone, that may fully discover him their opposite. Now, to seem to affect the malice and displeasure of the people, is as bad as that which he dislikes, to flatter them for their love.

2 Off.

He hath deserved worthily of his country: And his ascent is not by such easy degrees as those, who have been ^{3 note}

1 Offi.

No more of him; he is a worthy man: Make way, they are coming.

Men.
Having determin'd of the Volces, and
To send for Titus Lartius, it remains,
As the main point of this our after-meeting,
To gratify his noble service, that
Hath thus stood for his country: Therefore, please you,
Most reverend and grave elders, to desire

The present consul, and last general
In our well-found successes, to report
A little of that worthy work perform'd
By Caius Marcius Coriolanus; whom
We meet here, both to thank, and to remember
With honours like himself.

1 Sen.
Speak, good Cominius:
Leave nothing out for length; and make us think,
Rather our state's defective for requital,
Than we to stretch it out.—Masters o' the people,
We do request your kindest ear; and, after,
^{4 note}Your loving motion toward the common body,
To yield what passes here.

Sic.
We are convented
Upon a pleasing treaty; and have hearts
Inclinable to honour and advance
^{5 note}

Bru.
Which the rather
We shall be blest to do, if he remember
A kinder value of the people, than
He hath hereto priz'd them at.

Men.
^{6 note}That's off, that's off;

I would you rather had been silent: Please you
To hear Cominius speak?

Bru.
Most willingly:
But yet my caution was more pertinent,
Than the rebuke you give it.

Men.
He loves your people;
But tye him not to be their bed-fellow.—
Worthy Cominius, speak.—Nay, keep your place. [Coriolanus rises, and offers to go away.

1 Sen.
Sit, Coriolanus; never shame to hear
What you have nobly done.

Cor.
Your honours' pardon;
I had rather have my wounds to heal again,
Than hear say how I got them.

Bru.
Sir, I hope,
My words dis-bench'd you not?

Cor.
No, sir: yet oft,
When blows have made me stay, I fled from words.
You sooth'd not, therefore hurt not^{7 note}

Men.
Pray now, sit down.

Cor.
I had rather have one scratch my head i' the sun,
When the alarum were struck, than idly sit
To hear my nothings monster'd. [Exit Coriolanus.

Men.
Masters o' the people,
Your multiplying spawn ^{8 note}how can he flatter,
(That's thousand to one good one) when you now see,

He had rather venture all his limbs for honour,
Than one of his ears to hear it?—Proceed, Cominius.

Com.
I shall lack voice: the deeds of Coriolanus
Should not be utter'd feebly.—It is held,
That valour is the chiefest virtue, and
Most dignifies the haver: if it be,
The man I speak of cannot in the world
Be singly counterpois'd. At sixteen years,
^{9 note}When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought
Beyond the mark of others: our then dictator,
Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight,
When with his Amazonian chin^{1 note} he drove
The bristled lips before him: he bestrid
An o'er-prest Roman, and i' the consul's view
Slew three opposers; Tarquin's self he met,
And struck him on his knee: in that day's feats,
When he might act the woman in the scene^{2 note},
He prov'd best man i' the field, and for his meed
Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age
Man-enter'd thus, he waxed like a sea;
And, in the brunt of seventeen battles since,
He lurch'd all swords o'the garland^{3 note}. For this last,
Before and in Corioli, let me say,
I cannot speak him home: He stopt the fliers;
And, by his rare example, made the coward
Turn terror into sport: as waves before

A vessel under sail, so men obey'd,
And fell below his stem^{4 note}

'Twere a perpetual spoil: and, 'till we call'd
Both field and city ours, he never stood
To ease his breast with panting.

Men.
Worthy man!

1 Sen.
^{9 note}He cannot but with measure fit the honours
Which we devise him.

Com.
Our spoils he kick'd at;
And look'd upon things precious, as they were
The common muck o'the world: he covets less
^{1 note}Than misery itself would give; rewards
His deeds with doing them; ^{2 note}