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.