Coriolanus.
No more—I merit not this lavish praise.
True, we have driven the Roman legions back,
Defeated and disgrac'd—but what is this?
Nothing, ye Volsci, nothing yet is done.
Come on, my brave companions of the war!
Come, let us finish, at one mighty stroke,
The toil of labouring fate—We will, or perish!
While, noble Tullus, you protect the camp,
I, with my troops, all men of chosen valour,
And well approv'd to-day, will storm the city.

Titus.
Beneath thy animating conduct, Marcius,
What can the Volscian valour not perform?
Thy very fight and voice subdues the Romans.
When, lifting up your helm, you shew'd your face,
That like a comet glar'd destruction on 'em,
I saw their bravest veterans fly before thee.
Their ancient spirit has with thee forsook them,
And ruin hangs o'er yon devoted walls. Enter an Officer, who addresses Coriolanus.

Officer.
My lord, a herald is arriv'd from Rome,
To say a deputation from the senate,
Attended by the ministers of heaven,
A venerable train of priests and flamens
Is on the way, address'd to you.

Coriolannus.
To me!
What can this message mean?
What! do they think me such a milky boy,

To pay my vengeance with a few soft words?
Come, fellow soldiers, Tullus, come, and see,
If I betray the honours you have done me. [Exeunt all but Tullus and Volusius.

Volusius.
Are we not, Tullus, failing in our duty
Not to attend our general?

Tullus.
How! what say'st thou?

Volusius.
Methought my lord his parting orders were,
We should attend the triumph now preparing
O'er all his foes at once—Romans and Volsci!
Come, we shall give offence.

Tullus.
Of this no more.
I pray thee spare thy bitter irony.

Volusius.
Shall I then speak without disguise?

Tullus.
Speak out:
With all the honest bluntness of a friend.
Think'st thou I fear the truth?

Volusius.
Then, Tullus, know,
Thou art no more the general of the Volsci.
Thou hast, by this thy generous weakness, sunk
Thyself into a private man of Antium.
Yes, thou hast taken from thy laurel'd brow
The well-earn'd trophies of thy toils and perils,
Thy springing hopes, the fairest ever budded,
And heap'd them on a man too proud before.

Tullus.
He bears it high.

Volusius.
Death, and perdition! High!
With uncontroul'd command!—You see already,
He will not be encumber'd with the fetters

Of our advice. He speaks his sovereign will;
On every hand he issues out his orders,
As to his natural slaves.—For you, my lord,
He has, I think, confin'd you to your camp,
There in inglorious indolence to languish;
While he, beneath your blasted eye, shall reap
The harvest of your honour.

Tullus.
No, Volusius,
Whatever honour shall by him be gain'd
Reverts to me, from whose superior bounty
He drew the means of all his glorious deeds.
This mighty chief, this conqueror of Rome
Is but my creature—

Volusius.
Wretched, self-delusion;
Confusion! there it is! there lurks the sting
Of our dishonour! while this Marcius leads
The Roman armies, ours are driven before him.
Behold he changes sides; when with him changes
The fortune of the war. Strait they grow Volsci,
And we victorious Romans—such, no doubt,
Such is his secret boast.—Ay, this vile brand,
Success itself will fix for ever on us;
And, Tullus, thou, 'tis thou must answer for it.

Tullus. [Aside]
His words are daggers to my Heart; I feel
Their truth! but am asham'd to own my folly.

Volusius.
O shame! O infamy! the thought consumes me,
It scalds my eyes with tears, to see a Roman
Borne on our shoulders to immortal fame:
Just in the happy moment that decided
The long dispute of ages, that for which
Our generous ancestors had toil'd and bled,
To see him then step in and steal our glory!
O that we first had perish'd all! a people,
Who cannot find in their own proper force

Their own protection, are not worth the saving.

Tullus.
It must have way! I will no more suppress it—
Know, then, my rough old friend, no less than thee
His conduct stings me, and upbraids my folly.
I wake as from a dream. What demon mov'd me?
What doating generosity? His woes?
Was it his woes! to see the brave reduc'd
To trust his mortal foe? perhaps, a little
That work'd within my bosom—but, Volusius,
That was not all—I will to thee confess
The weakness of my heart—Yes, it was pride,
The dazzling pride to see my rival warrior,
The mighty Coriolanus, bend his soul,
His haughty soul, to sue for my protection.
Protection said I? Were it that alone,
I had been base to have refus'd him that,
To have refus'd him ought a gallant foe
Owes to a gallant foe.—But to exalt him
To the same level, nay above myself;
To yield him the command of half my troops,
The choicest acting half—That, that was madness!
Was weak, was mean, unworthy of a man!—

Volusius.
I scorn to flatter thee—It was indeed.

Tullus.
Curse on the slave Galesus! Soothing, he
Seiz'd the fond moment of infatuation,
And clinch'd the chains my generous folly forg'd.
How shall I from this labyrinth escape?
Must it then be! What cruel genius dooms me,
In war or peace to creep beneath his fortune?

Volusius.
That genius is thy self. If thou canst bear
The very thought of stooping to this Roman,
Thou from that moment art his vassal, Tullus;
By that thou dost acknowledge, parent nature
Has form'd him thy superior. But if fix'd

Upon the base of manly resolution,
Thou sayst—I will be free! I will command!
I and my country! then—O never doubt it—
We shall find means to crush this vain intruder;
Even I my self—this hand—
Nay, hear me, Tullus,
'Tis not yet come to that, that last resource.
I do not say we should employ the dagger,
While other better means are in our power.

Tullus.
No, my Volusius, fortune will not drive us,
Or I am much deceiv'd, to that extreme:
We shall not want the strongest, fairest plea,
To give a solemn sanction to his fate.
He will betray himself. Whate'er his rage
Of passion talks, a weakness for his country
Sticks in his soul, and he is still a Roman.
Soon shall we see him tempted to the brink
Of this sure precipice—Then down at once,
Without remorse, we hurl him to perdition.
But hark! The trumpet calls us to a scene
I should detest, if not from hope we thence
May gather matter to mature our purpose. Scene 2 SCENE changes to Rome. Enter Menenius, Minucius and Senators, of one side; of the other, the two Tribunes, Sicinius and Brutus.

Minucius.
Oh! you have made good work!

Tribunes.
What news? what news?

Menenius.
You have holp to ravish your own daughters, and
To melt the city-leads upon your pates;
To see your wives dishonour'd to your noses.

Brutus.
Pray now the news?

Menenius.
Yes, you have made good work,
You and your apron-men; that stood so much
Upon the voice of occupation, and
The breath of garlick-eaters.

Minucius.
He'll shake your Rome about your ears.

Menenius.
As Hercules did shake down mellow fruit.
You have made fair work!

Sicinius.
We're all undone, unless
The noble man have mercy.

Minucius.
Mercy, yes, you
Deserve such mercy of him, as the wolf
Does of the shepherd. You have brought on Rome
A trembling, such as she never knew before,
So incapable of help.

Tribunes.
Say not we brought it.

Menenius.
How? was it we? we lov'd him; but like beasts,
And coward nobles, gave way to your clusters,
Who did hoot him out o' the city.

Minucius.
But I fear,
They'll roar him in again. All our hope now
Lyes in Cominius, and the reverend fathers,
Who are gone to implore his mercy. Enter Citizens.

Menenius.
Here come the clusters—You are they
That made the air unwholsome, when you cast

Your stinking, greasy caps, in hooting
Coriolanus' exile. Now he's coming,
And not a hair upon a souldier's head,
Which will not prove a whip: as many coxcombs,
As you threw caps up, will he tumble down,
And pay you for your voices. 'Tis no matter,
If he should burn us all into a coal,
We have deserv'd it.

Omnes.
Faith we hear fearful news;
Sad news, sad news.

First Citizen.
For mine own part,
When I said banish him; I said 'twas pity.

Second Citizen.

And so did I.

Third Citizen.

And so did I; and so say the truth, so did every one of us, that we did, we did for the best; and tho' we willingly consented to his banishment, yet it was against our will.

Minucius.
Y'are goodly things? You, voices!
But here's Cominius, return'd from the deputation.
His looks forebode ill tidings, Enter Cominius and others.
Have you prevail'd? Will he have mercy?
Has Rome any hopes?

Cominius.
No, we're returned
Disgrac'd, our suit rejected, and the majesty
Of Rome insulted, trampled under foot.

Menenius.
So! you have made good work, you and your cry.

Minucuis.
How did he receive you?

Cominius.
He would not seem to know me.

Menenius.
Do you hear that?

Cominius.
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 o' the fire
Of burning Rome.

Menenius.
Why, so; you've made good work:
A pair of tribunes, that have rack'd for Rome,
To make coals cheap; you will deserve a memory.

Cominius.
I minded him how royal 'twas to pardon
When it was least expected. He reply'd,
It was a bare petition of a state
To one whom they had punish'd.

Menenius.
Very well, could he say less?

Cominius.
I offer'd to awaken his regard
For's private friends. His answer to me was,
He could not stay to pick them in a pile
Of noisom musty chaff. He said, 'twas folly,
For one poor grain or two, to leave unburnt,
And still to nose th' offence.

Menenius.
For one poor grain or two!
I'm 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.

Sicinius.
Nay, pray be patient, 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.

Menenius.
No, I'll not meddle.

Brutus.
Pray you go to him.

Cominius.
He'll never hear him.

Sicinius.
Not?

Cominius.
I tell you he does sit in gold, his eye
Red as 'twould burn Rome! and his injury
The gaoler to his pity. I kneel'd before him,
'Twas very faintly he said, Rise: dismiss'd me
Thus, with his speechless hand. What he would do,
He sent in writing after; what he would not,
Bound with an oath to yield to his conditions.
So that all hope is vain, unless his mother,
And wife, who (as I hear) mean to sollicit him
For mercy to his country, should succeed.

Menenius.

See you yond coin of the Capitol, yond corner-stone?

Sicinius.

Why what of that?

Menenius.

If it be possible for you to displace it with your little finger, there is some hope the ladies of Rome, especially his mother, may prevail with him.

Sicinius.

He lov'd her dearly.

Menenius.

Yes, but he no more remembers his mother now, than an eight-years-old horse. I warrant the tartness of his face sours ripe grapes. Mark what mercy his mother shall bring from him; there is no more mercy

in him than there is milk in a male tyger; that shall our poor city find; and all this is 'long of you. There is no hope left. Our throats are sentenc'd, and stay upon execution.

First Plebeian.

O doleful tidings!

Second Plebeian.

O woeful day!

Third Plebeian.

What will become of us?

First Plebeian.

Our wives and children!

Second Plebeian.

What shall we do?

Third Plebeian.

Let us seize the two tribunes that did banish him, and throw them down the Tarpeian rock.

All.

Agreed, agreed.

First Plebeian.

It will be the best means to paxify Coriolanus.

All.

Aye, aye, seize them.

Sicinius and Brutus.

O, good Menenius, save us, stand our friend.

Menenius.

Not I; they may hang, drown, burn, or break your worthless necks from the rock, 'tis all one to me.

All.

Away with them, away with them.

Cominius.

Hear me, my fellow-citizens.

First Plebeian.

Aye, hear the good Cominius.

All.

Hear him, hear him. Silence.

Cominius.
Good citizens, lay by this desp'rate course,
At least, suspend your angers, 'till you hear
How the entreaties of his mother, wife,
And our most noble matrons work upon him.
They yet may bring us peace.

First Plebeian.

So we will.

Second Plebeian.

We'll stay till their return.

Third Plebeian.

But if they don't bring back good news, it shall be ill news for you.

First Plebeian.

Yes, if they don't, we'll send their heads next to petition for us to Coriolanus.

Third Plebeian.

Aye, and they'll do't better off their shoulders than on.

Second Plebeian.

So they will. Come secure them; away, away.