Men.
No, I'll not go: You hear what he hath said
Which was sometime his General; who lov'd 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, fall down and kneel
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 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'th' Fire
Of burning Rome.

Men.
Why, so; you have made good work:
A pair of Tribunes, that have wrack'd for Rome,
To make Coals cheap: A noble Memory.

Com.
I minded him, how Royal 'twas to pardon
When it was less expected. He reply'd,
It was a bare Petition of a State
To one whom they had punish'd.

Men.
Very well, could he say less?

Com.
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 the Offence.

Men.
For one poor grain or two?
I am 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.

Sic.
Nay, pray be patient: If you refuse your aid
In this so never-needed help, yet 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 Country-man.

Men.
No: I'll not meddle.

Sic.
Pray you go to him.

Men.
What should I do?

Bru.
Only make trial what your Love can do
For Rome, towards Martius.

Men.
Well, and say that Martius return me,
As Cominius return'd, unheard: what then?
But as a discontented Friend, grief-shot
With his unkindness. Say't be so?

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

Men.
I'll undertake it:
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 din'd.
The Veins unfill'd, our Blood is cold, and then
We powt upon the Morning, are unapt
To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff'd
These Pipes, and these Conveyances of our Blood
With Wine and seeding, 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 Rode into his Kindness,
And cannot lose your way.

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

Com.
He'll never hear him.

Sic.
Not?

Com.
I tell you, he does sit in Gold, his Eye
Red as 'twould burn Rome; and his Injury
The Goaler 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; what he would not,
Bound with an Oath to yield to his Conditions:
So that all hope is vain, unless his noble Mother,
And his Wife (who as I hear) mean to sollicit him
For Mercy to his Country: therefore let's hence,
And with our fair Intreaties haste them on. [Exeunt.

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