Com.
If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work,
Thou'ldst ^note not believe thy deeds: but I'll report it,
Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles;
Where ^note great patricians shall attend, and shrug,
I' the end admire; where ladies shall be frighted,
And, gladly quaked, hear more; where the dull tribunes,
That, with the fusty plebeians ^note, hate thine honours,
Shall say against their hearts ‘We thank the gods
Our Rome hath such a soldier.’
Yet camest thou to a morsel of this feast,
Having fully dined before. Enter Titus Lartius, ^note with his power, from the pursuit.

Lart.
O general,
Here is the steed, we the caparison ^note:
Hadst thou beheld ^note—

Mar.
Pray now, no more: my mother,
Who has a charter to extol her blood ^note,
When she does praise me grieves me. I have done

As you have done; that's what I can: induced
As you have been; that's for my country ^note:
He that has but effected his good will
Hath overta'en mine act.

Com.
You shall not be
The grave of your deserving; Rome must know
The value of her own: 'twere a concealment
Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement ^note,
To hide your doings; and to silence that,
Which, to the spire and top of praises vouch'd,
Would seem but modest: therefore, I beseech you—
In sign of what you are, not to reward
What you have done—before our army hear me.

Mar.
I have some wounds upon me, and they smart
To hear themselves remember'd.

Com.
Should they not,
Well might they fester 'gainst ingratitude,
And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses,
Whereof we have ^note ta'en good, and good store ^note, of all ^note
The treasure in this field ^note achieved and city,
We render you the tenth; to be ta'en forth,
Before the common distribution, at ^note
Your only ^note choice.

Mar.
I thank you, general;
But cannot make my heart consent to take
A bribe to pay my sword: I do refuse it,
And stand upon my common part with those
That have beheld ^note the doing. [A long flourish. They all cry ‘Marcius! Marcius!’ cast up their caps and lances: Cominius and Lartius stand bare.

Mar.
May these same instruments, which you profane,
Never sound more! when drums and trumpets shall
I' the field prove flatterers, let ^note courts and ^note cities be
Made all of ^note false-faced soothing ^note!
When ^note steel grows soft as the ^note parasite's silk ^note,
Let him be made a coverture ^note for the wars!
No more, I ^note say ^note! For that I have not wash'd
My nose that bled, or foil'd some debile wretch,
Which without note here's many else have done,
You shout ^note me forth
In acclamations hyperbolical ^note;
As if I loved my little should be dieted
In praises sauced with lies. ^note

Com.
Too modest are you;
More cruel to your good report than grateful
To us that give ^note you truly: by your patience,
If 'gainst ^note yourself you be incensed, we'll put you,
Like one that means his proper harm, in manacles,
Then reason safely with you. Therefore, be it known,
As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius
Wears this war's garland: in token of the which,
My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him ^note,
With all his trim belonging; and from this time,
For what he did before Corioli, call him,
With all the applause and clamour of the host,

Caius Marcius ^note Coriolanus. Bear
The addition nobly ever ^note! [Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums.

All. ^note
Caius Marcius ^note Coriolanus!

Cor. ^note
I will go wash;
And when my face is fair, you shall perceive
Whether I blush, or no: howbeit, I thank you:
I mean to stride your steed; and at all times
To undercrest your good addition
To the fairness ^note of my power.

Com.
So, to our tent;
Where, ere ^note we do repose us, we will write
To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius,
Must to Corioli back: send us to Rome
The best, with whom we may articulate
For their own good and ours.

Lart.
I shall, my lord.

Cor. ^note
The gods begin to mock me. I, that now ^note
Refused most princely gifts, am bound to beg
Of my lord general ^note.

Com.
Take't ^note; 'tis yours. What is't?

Cor. ^note
I sometime lay here in Corioli
At a poor ^note man's ^note house; he used me kindly ^{note note}:
He cried to me; I saw him prisoner;
But then Aufidius was within my view,
And wrath o'erwhelm'd my pity: I request you
To give my poor host freedom.

Com.
O, well begg'd!
Were he the butcher of my son, he should
Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus.

Lart.
Marcius, his name?

Cor. ^note
By Jupiter, forgot:
I am ^note weary; yea, my memory is tired.
Have we no wine here?

Com.
Go we to our tent:
The blood upon your visage dries; 'tis time
It should be look'd to: come. [Exeunt. ^note

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