Men.
No, I'll not go: you hear, what he hath said,
Which was sometime his general; who lov'd him
In a most dear particular. He call'd me, father:
But what o'that? Go, you that banish'd him,
A mile before his tent fall down, and knee
The way into his mercy: Nay, if he coy'd
To hear Cominius speak, I'll keep at home.

Com.
He would not seem to know me.

Men.
Do you hear?

Com.
Yet one time he did call me by my name:
I urg'd our old acquaintance, and the drops
That we have bled together. Coriolanus

He would not answer to: forbad all names;
He was a kind of nothing, titleless,
'Till he had forg'd himself a name i' the fire
Of burning Rome.

Men.
Why, so; you have made good work:
A pair of tribunes, ^{2 note}

Com.
I minded him, how royal 'twas to pardon
When least it was expected: He reply'd,
^{4 note}

Men.
Very well:
Could he say less?

Com.
I offer'd to awaken his regard
For his private friends: His answer to me was,
He could not stay to pick them in a pile
Of noisome, musty chaff: He said, 'twas folly,

For one poor grain or two, to leave unburnt,
And still to nose the offence.

Men.
For one poor grain or two?
I am one of those; his mother, wife, his child,
And this brave fellow too, we are the grains:
You are the musty chaff; and you are smelt
Above the moon: We must be burnt for you.

Sic.
Nay, pray, be patient: If you refuse your aid
In this so never-needed help, yet do not
Upbraid us with our distress. But, sure, if you
Would be your country's pleader, your good tongue,
More than the instant army we can make,
Might stop our countryman.

Men.
No; I'll not meddle.

Sic.
Pray you, go to him.

Men.
What should I do?

Bru.
Only make trial what your love can do
For Rome, towards Marcius.

Men.
Well, and say that Marcius
Return me, as Cominius is return'd,
Unheard; what then?—
But as a discontented friend, grief-shot
With his unkindness? Say't be so?

Sic.
Yet your good will
Must have that thanks from Rome, after the measure
As you intended well.

Men.
I'll undertake it:
I think, he'll hear me. Yet to bite his lip,
And hum at good Cominius, much unhearts me.
^{5 note}He was not taken well; he had not din'd:
The veins unfill'd, our blood is cold, and then
We pout upon the morning, are unapt
To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff'd

These pipes, and these conveyances of our blood
With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls
Than in our priest-like fasts: therefore I'll watch him
'Till he be dieted to my request,
And then I'll set upon him.

Bru.
You know the very road into his kindness,
And cannot lose your way.

Men.
Good faith, I'll prove him,
Speed how it will. I shall ere long have knowledge
Of my success. [Exit.

Com.
He'll never hear him.

Sic.
Not?

Com.
^{6 note}

^{8 note}