Men.
No, I'll not go: you hear what he hath said
Which was ^note sometime his general, who loved him
In a most dear particular. He call'd me father:
But what o' that? Go, you that banish'd him;
A mile before his tent ^note fall down, and knee ^note
The way into his mercy: nay, if he coy'd
To hear Cominius speak, I'll keep at home.

Com.
He would not seem to know me.

Men.
Do you hear?

Com.
Yet one time he did call me by my name:
I urged 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 forged himself a name o' the ^note fire

Of burning Rome.

Men.
Why, so: you have ^note made good work!
A pair of tribunes that have rack'd for ^note Rome, ^note
To make coals cheap: ^note a noble memory!

Com.
I minded him how royal 'twas to pardon
When it was less ^note expected: he replied,
It was a bare ^note petition of a state ^note
To one whom they had punish'd.

Men.
Very well:
Could he say less? ^note

Com.
I offer'd to awaken his regard
For 's ^note private friends: his answer to me was,
He could not stay to pick them in a pile
Of noisome musty chaff, he said 'twas folly,
For one poor grain or two, to leave unburnt,
And still to nose the offence.

Men.
For one poor grain or two!
I am ^note one of those; his mother, wife, his child,
And this brave fellow too, we are ^note the grains:
You are the musty chaff, and you are smelt
Above the moon: we must be burnt for you.

Sic.
Nay, pray, be patient: if you refuse your aid
In this so never-needed ^note help, yet do not
Upbraid's ^note 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.

Men.
No, I'll not meddle.

Sic.
Pray you ^note, go to him.

Men.
What ^note should I do? ^note

Bru.
Only make trial what your love can do
For Rome, towards Marcius.

Men.
Well, and say that Marcius
Return me, as Cominius is return'd ^note,
Unheard ^note; what then? ^{note note}
But as ^note a discontented friend ^note, grief-shot
With his unkindness? say 't be so?

Sic.
Yet your good will ^note
Must have that thanks from ^note Rome, after the measure
As you intended well.

Men.
I'll undertake 't ^note:
I think he'll hear me. Yet, to bite his lip
And hum at good Cominius, much unhearts me.
He was not taken well; he had not dined:
The veins unfill'd, our blood is cold, and then
We pout upon the morning, are unapt
To give or to forgive; but when we have ^note stuff'd
These pipes and these conveyances of our ^note blood
With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls
Than in our priest-like fasts: therefore I'll watch him
Till he be dieted to my request,
And then I'll set upon him.

Bru.
You know the very road into his kindness,

And cannot lose your way.

Men.
Good faith, I'll prove him,
Speed how it will. ^note I shall ere long have knowledge
Of my success. [Exit.

Com.
He'll never hear him.

Sec.
Not? ^note

Com.
I tell you, he does sit ^note in gold ^note, 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 me ^note; what he would not, ^note
Bound with an oath to yield to his conditions: ^note
So that ^note all ^note hope is vain,
Unless his noble mother, and his wife ^note;
Who, as I hear, ^note mean to solicit him ^note
For ^note mercy to his country ^note. Therefore, let's ^note hence,
And with our fair entreaties haste them on. [Exeunt.

^note

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