Men.

See you yond coign o' the Capitol, yond corner-stone?

Sic.

Why, what of that?

Men.

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. But I say there is no hope in't: our throats are sentenced, and stay upon execution.

Sic.

Is't possible that so short a time can alter the condition of a man?

Men.

There is differency ^note between a grub and a butterfly; yet your butterfly was a grub. This Marcius is grown

from man to dragon: he has wings; he's more than a creeping thing.

Sic.

He loved his mother dearly.

Men.

So did he me: and he no more remembers his mother now than an eight-year-old ^note horse. The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes: when he walks, he moves like an engine, and the ground shrinks before his treading: he is able to pierce a corslet with his eye; talks like a knell, and his hum is a battery. He sits in his state ^note, as a thing made for ^note Alexander. What he bids be done, is finished with his bidding. He wants nothing of a god but eternity and a heaven to throne in.

Sic.

Yes, mercy, if you report him truly.

Men.

I paint him in the character. Mark what mercy his mother shall bring from him: there is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger; that shall our poor city find: and all this is long ^note of you.

Sic.

The gods be good unto us!

Men.

No, in such a case the gods will not be good unto us. When we banished him, we respected not them; and, he returning to break our necks, they respect not us.

Mess.
Sir, if you'ld save your life, fly to your house:
The plebeians have got your fellow-tribune,
And hale him up and down, all swearing, if
The Roman ladies bring not comfort home,
They'll give him death by inches. Enter another Messenger.

Sic.
What's the news?

Sec. Mess. ^note
Good news, good news; the ladies have prevail'd,

The Volscians are dislodged, and Marcius gone:
A merrier day did never yet greet Rome,
No, not the expulsion of the Tarquins.

Sic.
Friend,
Art thou certain this is true? is it ^note most certain? ^{note note}

Sec. Mess. ^note
As certain as I know the sun is fire:
Where have you lurk'd, that you make doubt of it?
Ne'er through an arch so hurried the blown tide,
As the recomforted through the gates. Why, hark you! [Trumpets ^note; hautboys; drums beat; all together ^note.
The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries and fifes,
Tabors and cymbals ^note and the shouting Romans,
Make the sun dance. Hark you ^note! [A shout within. ^note

Men.
This is good news:
I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia ^note
Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians,
A city full; of tribunes, such as you,
A sea and land full. You have ^note pray'd well to-day:
This morning for ten thousand of your throats
I'ld not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy! [Music ^note still, with shouts.

Sic.
First, the gods bless you for your tidings; next,
Accept my thankfulness ^note.

Sec. Mess.
Sir, we have all
Great cause to give great thanks.

Sic.
They are ^note near the city? ^note

Sec. Mess.
Almost at point to enter.

Sic.
We will ^note meet them,
And help the joy ^{note note}. [Exeunt. ^{note note}

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