Veturia.

I pray you, daughter, sing, or express yourself in a more comfortable sort: If my son were my husband, I would freelier rejoice in that absence wherein he won honour, than in the endearments of his bed, where he would shew most love. When yet he was but tender-bodied, and the only son of my womb; when youth with comeliness plucked all gaze his way; when, for a day of king's entreaties, a mother should not sell him an hour from her beholding; I, considering how honour would become such a person, that it was no better than picture-like to hang by the wall, if renown made it not stir, was pleas'd to let him seek danger, where he was like to find fame: To a cruel war I sent him, from whence he return'd, his brows

bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, I sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child, than now in first seeing he had proved himself a man.

Volumnia.

But had he died in the business, madam; how then?

Veturia.

Then his good report should have been my son; I therein would have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely: Had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike; and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather eleven die nobly for their country, than one voluptuously surfeit, out of action.

Volumnia.
Beseech you, give me leave to retire myself.

Veturia.
Indeed, thou shalt not:
Methinks, I hither hear your husband's drum:
I see him pluck Aufidius down by th' hair:
(As children from a bear) the Volsci shunning him:
Methinks, I see him stamp thus:—and call thus—
Come on, ye cowards, ye were got in fear,
Though you were born in Rome; his bloody brow
With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes
Like to a harvest-man, that's task'd to mow
Or all, or lose his hire.

Volumnia.
His bloody brow! Oh, Jupiter, no blood!—

Veturia.
Away, you fool; it more becomes a man,
Than guilt his trophy. The breast of Hecuba,
When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier,
Than Hector's forehead, when it spit forth blood
At Grecian swords contending.

Volumnia.
Heav'ns bless my lord from fell Aufidius!

Veturia.
He'll beat Aufidius' head below his knee,
And tread upon his neck.

Enter a Gentlewoman.

Gent.

Madam, here's a messenger arrived, who says the army is on it's march back to Rome, having obtain'd a great victory over the Volsci—the honour of which is chiefly given to your son. He brings letters from him.

Veturia.

O Jupiter! let us fly to him.