Rom.

I know you well, Sir, and you know me: Your Name, I think, is Adrian.

Vol.

It is so, Sir: truly I have forgot you.

Rom.

I am a Roman, and my Services are as you are against 'em. Know you me yet?

Vol.

Nicanor? No.

Rom.

The same, Sir.

Vol.

You had more Beard when I last saw you, but your Favour is well appear'd by your Tongue. What's the News in Rome? I have a Note from the Volscian State to find you out here. You have well saved me a Day's Journey.

Rom.

There hath been in Rome strange Insurrections: The People against the Senators, Patricians, and Nobles.

Vol.

Hath been! is it ended then? Our State thinks not

so; they are in a most Warlike Preparation, and hope to come upon them in the heat of their Division.

Rom.

The main blaze of it is past, but a small thing would make it flame again. For the Nobles receive so to heart the Banishmnnt of that worthy Coriolanus, that they are in a ripe aptness, to take all Power from the People, and to pluck from them their Tribunes for ever. This lies glowing I can tell you, and is almost mature for the violent breaking out.

Vol.

Coriolanus Banish'd?

Rom.

Banish'd, Sir.

Vol.

You will be welcome with this Intelligence, Nicanor.

Rom.

The day serves well for them now. I have heard it said, the fittest time to corrupt a Man's Wife, is when she's fallen out with her Husband. Your Noble Tullus Aufidius will appear well in these Wars, his great Opposer Coriolanus being now in no request of his Country.

Vol.

He cannot chuse. I am most fortunate, thus accidentally to encounter you. You have ended my Business, and I will merrily accompany you home.

Rom.

I shall, between this and Supper, tell you most strange things from Rome; all tending to the good of their Adversaries. Have you an Army ready, say you?

Vol.

A most Royal one. The Centurions and their Charges distinctly billetted already in the entertainment, and to be on foot at an hour's warning.

Rom.

I am joyful to hear of their readiness, and am the Man, I think, that shall set them in present Action. So, Sir, heart'ly well met, and most glad of your Company.

Vol.

You take my part from me, Sir, I have the most cause to be glad of yours.

Rom.

Well, let us go together.

Cor.
A goodly City is this Antium. City,
'Tis I that made thy Widows: Many an Heir
Of these fair Edifices, for my Wars
Have I heard groan, and drop: Then know me not,
Lest that thy Wives with Spits, and Boys with Stones,
In puny Battel slay me. Save you, Sir. Enter a Citizen.

Cit.

And you.

Cor.

Direct me, if it be your will, where great Aufidius lies: Is he in Antium?

Cit.

He is, and Feasts the Nobles of the State, at his House this Night.

Cor.

Which is his House, I beseech you?

Cit.

This here before you.

Cor.
Thank you, Sir: Farewel. [Exit Citizen.
Oh World, thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn,
Whose double Bosoms seem to wear one Heart,
Whose Hours, whose Bed, whose Meal and Exercise
Are still together; who twine (as 'twere) in Love,
Unseparable, shall within this Hour,
On a dissention of a Doit, break out
To bitterest Enmity. So fellest Foes,
Whose Passions, and whose Plots have broke their Sleep
To take the one the other, by some chance,
Some Trick not worth an Egg, shall grow dear Friends,
And inter-join their Issues. So with me,
My Birth-place have I, and my Lovers left; upon
This Enemy's Town I'll enter, if he slay me;
He does fair Justice: If he give me way,
I'll do his Country Service. [Exit.

SENE III. A Hall in Aufidius's House. Musick plays. Enter a Serving-man.

1 Ser.

Wine, Wine, Wine! What Service is here? I think our Fellows are asleep.

2 Ser.

Where's Cotus? My Master calls for him: Cotus.

Cor.
A goodly House;
The Feast smells; but I appear not like a Guest. Enter the first Serving-man.

1 Ser.
What would you have, Friend? whence are you?
Here's no place for you: Pray go to the Door. [Exit.

Cor.

I have deserv'd no better Entertainment, in being Coriolanus.

2 Ser.

Whence are you, Sir? Has the Porter his Eyes in his Head, that he gives entrance to such Companions? Pray get you out.

Cor.

Away!—

2 Ser.

Away: Get you away.

Cor.

Now thou'rt troublesom.

2 Ser.

Are you so brave? I'll have you talk'd with anon.

3 Ser.

What Fellow's this?

1 Ser.

A strange one as ever I look'd on: I cannot get him out o'th' House: Prithee call my Master to him.

3 Ser.

What have you to do here, Fellow? Pray you avoid the House.

Cor.

Let me but stand, I will not hurt your Hearth.

3 Ser.

What are you?

Cor.

A Gentleman.

3 Ser.

A marvellous poor one.

Cor.

True; so I am.

3 Ser.

Pray you, poor Gentleman, take up some other Station, here's no place for you; pray you avoid: Come.

Cor.

Follow your Function, go and batten on cold bits.

3. Ser.

What, you will not? Prithee tell my Master, what a strange Guest he has here.

2 Ser.

And I shall.

3 Ser.

Where dwell'st thou?

Cor.

Under the Canopy.

3 Ser.

Under the Canopy?

Cor.

Ay.

3 Ser.

Where's that?

Cor.

I'th' City of Kites and Crows.

3 Ser.

I'th' City of Kites and Crows? What an Ass it is; then thou dwell'st with Daws too?

Cor.

No, I serve not thy Master.

3 Ser.

How, Sir! Do you meddle with my Master?

Cor.

Ay, 'tis an honester Service, than to meddle with thy Mistress: Thou prat'st, and prat'st; serve with thy Trencher: Hence.

Auf.

Where is this Fellow?

2 Ser.

Here, Sir; I'd have beaten him like a Dog, but for disturbing the Lords within.

Auf.

Whence com'st thou? What would'st thou? Thy Name? Why speak'st not? Speak Man: VVhat's thy Name?

Cor.

If, Tullus, not yet thou know'st me, and seeing me, dost not take me for the Man I am, necessity commands me name my Self.

Auf.
What is thy Name?

Cor.
A Name unmusical to Volscians Ears,
And harsh in sound to thine.

Auf.
Say, what's thy Name?
Thou hast a grim appearance, and thy Face
Bears a Command in't; though thy Tackle's torn,
Thou shew'st a noble Vessel: What's thy Name?

Cor.
Prepare thy Brow to frown; know'st thou me not?

Auf.
I know thee not; thy Name?

Cor.
My Name is Caius Martius, who hath done
To thee particularly, and to all the Volscies,
Great Hurt and Mischief; thereto witness may
My Sirname, Coriolanus. The painful Service,
The extream Dangers, and the drops of Blood
Shed for my thankless Country, are requited
But with that Sirname; a good Memory
And witness of the Malice and Displeasure
Which thou could'st bear me; only that Name remains.
The Cruelty and Envy of the People,
Permitted by our dastard Nobles, who
Have all forsook me, hath devour'd the rest;
And suffer'd me by th' voice of Slaves to be
Hoop'd out of Rome. Now this extremity
Hath brought me to thy Hearth, not out of hope
(Mistake me not) to save my Life; for if
I had fear'd Death, of all the Men i'th' World
I would have voided thee. But in meer spite
To be full quit of those my Banishers,
Stand I before thee here: Then if thou hast
A Heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge
Thine own particular Wrongs, and stop those maims
Of shame seen through thy Country, speed thee straight,
And make my misery serve thy turn: So use it,
That my revengeful Services may prove
As Benefits to thee. For I will fight
Against my Cankred Country, with the spleen
Of all the under Fiends. But if so be,
Thou dar'st not this, and that to prove more Fortunes
Thou'rt tir'd, then in a word, I also am
Longer to live most weary, and present
My Throat to thee, and to thy ancient Malice:

Which not to cut, would shew thee but a Fool,
Since I have ever follow'd thee with hate,
Drawn Tuns of Blood out of thy Country's Breast,
And cannot live but to thy Shame, unless
It be to do thee Service.

Auf.
Oh, Martius, Martius,
Each word thou hast spoke, hath weeded from my Heart
A root of ancient Envy. If Jupiter
Should from yon Cloud speak Divine things,
And say, 'tis true; I'd not believe them more
Than thee, all-noble Martius. Let me twine
Mine Arms about that Body, where against
My grained Ash an hundred times hath broke,
And scarr'd the Moon with Splinters; here I cleep
The Anvile of my Sword, and do contest
As hotly and as nobly with thy Love,
As ever in ambitious Strength, I did
Contend against thy Valour. Know thou, first
I lov'd the Maid I married; never Man
Sigh'd truer Breath. But that I see thee here,
Thou Noble thing, more dances my rapt Heart,
Than when I first my wedded Mistress saw
Bestride my Threshold. Why, thou Mars, I tell thee,
We have a Power on foot; and I had purpose
Once more to hew thy Target from thy Brawn,
Or lose mine Arm for't: Thou hast bear me out
Twelve several times, and I have nightly since
Dream't of Encounters 'twixt thy self and me:
We have been down together in my Sleep,
Unbuckling Helms, fisting each others Throat,
And wak'd half dead with nothing. Worthy Martius,
Had we no Quarrel else to Rome, but that
Thou art thence banish'd, we would muster all
From twelve to seventy; and pouring War
Into the Bowels of ungrateful Rome,
Like a bold Flood o'er-bear. Oh come, go in,
And take our Friendly Senators by th' Hands,
Who now are here, taking their leaves of me,
Who am prepar'd against your Territories,
Though not for Rome it self.

Cor.
You bless me, Gods.

Auf.
Therefore, most absolute Sir, if thou wilt have
The leading of thine own Revenges, take
The one half of my Commission, and set down
As best thou art experienc'd, since thou know'st
Thy Country's Strength and Weakness, thine own ways;
Whether to knock against the Gates of Rome,
Or rudely visit them in parts remote,
To fright them, e'er destroy. But come in,
Let me commend thee first to those that shall
Say yea to thy Desires. A thousand welcomes,
And more a Friend, than e'er an Enemy:
Yet, Martius, that was much. Your Hand; most welcome. [Exeunt. Enter two Servants.

1 Ser.

Here's a strange Alteration.

2 Ser.

By my Hand, I had thought to have strucken him with a Cudgel, and yet my Mind gave me, his Clothes made a false report of him.

1 Ser.

What an Arm he has, he turn'd me about with his Finger and his Thumb, as one would set up a Top.

2 Ser.

Nay, I knew by his Face that there was something in him. He had, Sir, a kind of Face, methought—I cannot tell how to term it.

1 Ser.

He had so: looking, as it were—would I were hanged but I thought there was more in him than I could think.

2 Ser.

So did I, I'll be sworn: He is simply the rarest Man i'th' World.

1 Ser.
I think he is; but a greater Soldier than he,
You wot one.

2 Ser.

Who, my Master?

1 Ser.

Nay, it's no matter for that.

2 Ser.

Worth six on him.

1 Ser.

Nay, not so neither; but I take him to be the greater Soldier.

2 Ser.

Faith, look you, one cannot tell how to say that; for the defence of a Town, our General is excellent.

1 Ser.

Ay, and for an Assault too.

3 Ser.

Oh Slaves, I can tell you News; News, you Rascals.

Both.

What, what, what? Let's partake.

3 Ser.
I would not be a Roman of all Nations; I had as
Lieve be a condemn'd Man.

Both.

Wherefore? wherefore?

3 Ser.

Why here's he that was wont to thwack our General, Caius Martius.

1 Ser.

Why do you say, thwack our General?

3 Ser.

I do not say thwack our General, but he was always good enough for him.

2 Ser.

Come, we are Fellows and Friends; he was ever too hard for him, I have heard him say so himself.

1 Ser.

He was too hard for him directly, to say the Troth on't; before Coriolus, he scotcht him and notcht him like a Carbonado.

2 Ser.

And, had he been Cannibally given, he might have boil'd and eaten him too.

1 Ser.

But more of thy News.

3 Ser.

Why he is so made on here within, as if he were Son and Heir to Mars: Set at upper end o'th' Table; no Question askt him by any of the Senators, but they stand bald before him. Our General himself makes a Mistress of him, sanctifies himself with's Hands, and turns up the white o'th' Eye to his Discourse. But the bottom of the News is, our General is cut i'th' middle, and but one half of what he was yesterday. For the other has half, by the intreaty and grant of the whole Table. He'll go, he says, and sowle the Porter of Rome Gates by th' Ears. He will mow down all before him, and leave his passage poll'd.

2 Ser.

And he's as like to do't as any Man I can imagine.

3 Ser.

Do't! he will do't: For look you, Sir, he has as many Friends as Enemies; which Friends, Sir, as it were, durst not (look you, Sir) shew themselves (as we term it) his Friends, whilst he's in Directitude.

1 Ser.

Directitude! What's that?

3 Ser.

But when they shall see, Sir, his Crest up again, and the Man in Blood, they will out of their Burroughs (like Conies after Rain) and revel all with him.

1 Ser.

But when goes this forward?

3 Ser.

To Morrow, to Day, presently, you shall have the Drum struck up this Afternoon: 'Tis as it were a parcel of their Feast, and to be executed e'er they wipe their Lips.

2 Ser.
Why then we shall have a stirring World again:
This Peace is worth nothing, but to rust Iron, encrease
Tailors, and breed Ballad-makers.

1 Ser.

Let me have War, say I, it exceeds Peace, as far as Day does Night, it's sprightly walking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very Apoplexy, Lethargy, mull'd, deaf, sleepy, insensible, a getter of more Bastard Children, than Wars a destroyer of Men.

2 Ser.

'Tis so, and as Wars in some sort may be said to be a Ravisher, so it cannot be denied, but Peace is a great maker of Cuckolds.

1 Ser.

Ay, and it makes Men hate one another.

3 Ser.

Reason, because they then less need one another: The Wars for my Mony. I hope to see Romans as cheap as Volscians. They are rising, they are rising.

Both.

In, in, in, in.