Brutus.
Menenius.
The Augur tells me, we shall have news to-night.
Brutus.
Good or bad?
Menenius.
Not according to the prayer of the people, for they
love not Marcius.
Sicinius.
Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.
Menenius.
Pray you, whom does the wolf love?
Sicinius.
The lamb.
Menenius.
Ay, to devour him, as the hungry plebeians would the
noble Marcius.
Brutus.
He's a lamb, indeed, that baes like a bear.
Menenius.
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;
Menenius.
In what enormity is Marcius poor, that you two have
not in abundance?
-- 4 --
Brutus.
He's poor in no one fault, but stor'd with all.
Sicinius.
Especially with pride.
Brutus.
And topping all others in boasting.
Menenius.
This is strange now, do you two know how you are
censur'd here in the city, I mean of us o'th' right hand
file, do you?
Brutus.
Why,—how are we censur'd?
Menenius.
Because you talk of pride now, will you not be angry?
Both.
Well, well, Sir, well.
Menenius.
You blame Marcius for being proud.
Brutus.
We do it not alone, Sir,
Menenius.
I know, you can do very little alone; for your helps
are many, or else your actions would grow wond'rous
single; your abilities are too infant-like, for doing
much alone. You talk of pride—Oh, that you could
turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and
make but an interior survey of your good selves! Oh,
that you could!
Brutus.
What then, Sir?
Menenius.
Why then, you should discover a brace of as unmeriting,
proud, violent, testy magistrates, alias, fools, as
any in Rome.
Sicinius.
Menenius, you are known well enough too.
Menenius.
I am known to be a humorous patrician, and one that
loves a cup of good wine with not a drop of allaying
Tiber in't: Said to be something imperfect, in favouring
-- 5 --
the first complaint; hasty and tinder-like, upon too
trival motion: 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 weal's-men 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.
Brutus.
Come, Sir, come, we know you well enough.
Menenius.
You know neither me, yourselves, nor any thing;
you are ambitious for poor knaves caps and legs;
you wear out a good wholesome forenoon, in hearing
a cause between an orange-wench and a fosset-seller,
and then adjourn a controversy of three-pence to a second
day of audience.
Brutus.
Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter
giber for the table, than a necessary bencher in
the Capitol.
Menenius.
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 intomb'd in an ass's pack-saddle. Yet you must
be saying Marcus is proud; who, in a cheap estimation,
is worth all your predecessors, since Deucalion;
though, peradventure, some of them were hereditary
hangmen. Goode'en to your worships; more
of your conversation wou'd infect my brain, being the
herdsmen of the beastly plebeians. I will be bold to
take my leave of you. Brutus and Sicinius stand aside.
[As Menenius is going out, enter Veturia and Volumnia.
How now my (as fair as noble) ladies, and the
moon, were she earthly, no nobler. Whither do you
follow your eyes so fast?
-- 6 --
Veturia.
Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius approaches;
for the love of Juno, let's go.
Menenius.
Ha! Marcius coming home?
Veturia.
Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous
approbation.
Menenius.
Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee—
How, Marcius coming home!
Veturia.
Nay, 'tis true.
Look, here's a letter from him, the state hath another,
his wife another; and I think, there's one at
home for you.
Menenius.
I will make my very house reel to night.
A letter for me!
Volumnia.
Yes, certain, there's a letter for you, I saw't.
Menenius.
A letter for me! It gives me an estate of seven year's
health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician.
The most sovereign prescription in Galen is
but emperic, and to this preservative, of no better report
than a horse-drench. Is he not wounded? He
was want to come home wounded.
Volumnia.
Oh, no, no, no.
Veturia.
Oh, he is wounded, I thank the Gods for't.
Menenius.
So do I too, if he be not too much; brings a victory
in his pocket? The wounds become it.
Volumnia.
On his brows, Menenius, he comes the third time
home with the oaken garland.
-- 7 --
Menenius.
Hath he disciplin'd Aufidius soundly?
Veturia.
Titus Lartius writes, they fought together; but
Aufidius got off.
Menenius.
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 possest of this?
Veturia.
Good ladies, let's go. Yes, yes, yes, the senate has
letters from the general, wherein he gives my son the
sole name of the war: he hath in this action out-done
his former deeds doubly.
Volumnia.
There's wond'rous things spoke of him.
Menenius.
Wond'rous! Ay, I warrant you, and not without
his true purchasing.
Volumnia.
The gods grant them true?
Veturia.
True! pow, waw.—
Menenius.
True! I'll be sworn they are true. Where is he
wounded? heaven save your good worships—Marcius
is coming home; he has more cause to be proud.
Where is he wounded?
[To the Tribunes.
Veturia.
I' th' shoulder, and i' th' left arm; there will be large
scars to shew the people, when he shall stand for his
place. He receiv'd in the repulse of Tarquin seven
hurts i' th' body.
Menenius.
One i' th' neck, and one too i' th' thigh; there's nine,
that I know.
-- 8 --
Veturia.
He had before this last expedition, twenty-five
wounds upon him.
Menenius.
Now, 'tis twenty-seven; every gash was an enemy's
grave. Hark, the trumpets.
[A shout and flourish.
Veturia.
These are the ushers of Marcius; before him he carries
noise, and behind him he leaves tears.
Trumpets sound, enter Cominius the General, and Minucius; behind them Coriolanus, crown'd with an oaken garland, with Captains and Soldiers, and a Herald.
Thomas Sheridan [1755], Coriolanus: or, the Roman matron. A tragedy. Taken from Shakespear and Thomson. As it is Acted at the Theatre-Royal in Covent-Garden: To which is added, The Order of the ovation (Printed for A. Millar [etc.], London) [word count] [S35400].
