Sicinius.
Men.
The augurer note tells me, we shall have news tonight.
Bru.
Good, or bad?
Men.
Not according to the prayer of the people, for
they love not Marcius.
Sic.
Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.
Men.
Pray you, who does the wolf love?
Sic.
The lamb.
Men.
Ay, to devour him; as the hungry plebeians
would the noble Marcius.
Bru.
He's a lamb, indeed, that baes like a bear.
Men.
He's a bear, indeed, that lives like a lamb. You
two are old men; tell me one thing that I shall ask you.
Tri.
Well, sir.
-- 33 --
Men.
In what enormity is Marcius poor, note that you two
have not in abundance?
Bru.
He's poor in no one fault, but stor'd with all.
Sic.
Especially, in pride.
Bru.
And topping all others in boast. note
Men.
This is strange now: Do you two know how
you are censured here in the city, I mean of us o' the
right hand file, do you?
Tri.
Why, how are we censur'd?
Men.
Because you talk of pride now,—Will you not
be angry?
Tri.
Well, well, sir, well.
Men.
Why, 'tis no great matter; for a very little thief
of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience:
give your dispositions the reins, and be angry at your
pleasures; at the least, if you take it as a pleasure to you,
in being so. You blame Marcius for being proud?
Bru.
We do it not alone, sir.
Men.
I know, you can do very little alone; for your
helps are many; or else your actions would grow wondrous
single: your abilities are too infant-like, for doing
much alone. You talk of pride: O, that you could turn
your eyes toward the napes of your necks, and make
but an interior survey of your good selves! o, that you
could!
Tri.
What then, sir?
Men.
Why, then you should discover a brace of as unmeriting,
proud, violent, testy magistrates, (alias, fools)
as any in Rome.
Sic.
Menenius, you are known well enough too.
Men.
I am known to be a humorous patrician, and
one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying
-- 34 --
Tiber in't: said to be something imperfect, in favouring
the first complaint; hasty, and tinder-like, upon
too trivial motion: one that converses more with the buttock
of the night, than with the forehead of the morning.
What I think, I utter; and spend my malice in my
breath: Meeting two such weal's-men as you are, (I cannot
call you Lycurgusses note) if the drink you give me touch
my palate adversly, I make a crooked face at it. I cannot
say,14Q0969 your worships have deliver'd the matter well,
when I find the ass in compound with the major part of
your syllables: and though I must be content to bear with
those, that say, you are reverend grave men; yet note they
lie deadly, that tell you, you have good faces: If you see
this in the map of my microcosm, follows it that I am
known well enough too? What harm can your bisson note conspectuities
glean out of this character, if I be known well
enough too?
Bru.
Come, sir, come, we know you well enough.
Men.
You know neither me, yourselves, nor any
thing. You are ambitious for poor knaves' caps and legs:
you wear out a good wholesome forenoon, in hearing a
cause between an orange-wife and a fosset-seller; and
then rejourn the controversy of three-pence to a second
day of audience. When you are hearing a matter between
party and party, if you chance to be pinch'd with the
cholick, you make faces like mummers; set up the bloody
flag against all patience, and, in roaring for a chamberpot,
dismiss the controversy bleeding, the more entangl'd
by your hearing: all the peace you make in their cause,
is, calling both the parties knaves: You are a pair of
strange ones.
Bru.
Come, come, you are well understood to be a
-- 35 --
perfecter giber for the table, than a necessary bencher in
the capitol.
Men.
Our very priests must become mockers, if
they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects as you are.
When you speak best unto the purpose, it is not worth
the waging of your beards; and your beards deserve not
so honourable a grave, as to stuff a botcher's cushion, or
to be entomb'd in an ass's pack-saddle. Yet you must be
saying, Marcius is proud; who, in a cheap estimation,
is worth all your predecessors, since Deucalion; though,
peradventure, some of the best of them were hereditary
hangmen. Good e'en note to your worships: more of your
conversation would infect my brain, being the herdsmen
of the beastly plebeians note: I will be bold to take my leave
of you.
Enter, hastily, Volumnia, Virgilia note,
Valeria, and a great Crowd of People: Tribunes join the Crowd.
How now, my as fair as noble ladies, (and the moon,
were she earthly, no nobler) whither do you follow your
eyes so fast?
Vol.
Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius approaches;
for the love of Juno, let's go.
Men.
Ha! Marcius coming home?
Vol.
Ay, worthy Menenius; and with most prosperous
approbation.
Men.
Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee:—Ho,
Marcius coming home!
Vir. Val.
Nay, 'tis true.
Vol.
Look, here's † a letter from him; the state hath
another, his wife another, and, I think, there's one at
home for you.
-- 36 --
Men.
I will make my very house reel to-night:—A
letter for me?
Vir.
Yes, certain, there's a letter for you; I saw it.
Men.
A letter for me?—It gives me an estate of seven
years' health; in which time, I will make a lip at the
physician: the most sovereign prescription in Galen is
but emperic, and, to this preservative, of no better report
than a horse-drench:—Is he not wounded? he was
wont to come home wounded.
Vir.
O, no, no, no.
Vol.
O, he is wounded, I thank the gods for't.
Men.
So do I too, if it be not too much:—Brings a'
victory in his pocket?14Q0970—The wounds become him.
Vol.
On's brows, Menenius; he comes the third time
home with the oaken garland.
Men.
Has he disciplin'd Aufidius soundly?
Vol.
Titus Lartius writes,—they fought together, but
Aufidius got off.
Men.
And 'twas time for him too, I warrant him that:
an' he had stay'd by him, I would not have been so fidius'd,
for all the chests in Corioli, and the gold that's in them.—
Is the senate possess'd of this?
Vol.
Good ladies, let's go:—Yes, yes, yes: the senate
has letters from the general, wherein he gives my
son the whole name of the war: he hath in this action
outdone his former deeds doubly.
Val.
In troth, there's wondrous things spoke of him.
Men.
Wondrous? ay, I warrant you, and not without
his true purchasing.
Vir.
The gods grant them true!
Vol.
True? pow, wow.
Men.
True? I'll be sworn they are true:—Where is he
-- 37 --
wounded? note God save your good worships! [to the Tribunes]
Marcius is coming home: he has more cause to be proud:
—Where is he wounded?
Vol.
I'the shoulder, and i'the left arm: There will
be large cicatrices to shew the people, when he shall stand
for his place: He received, in the repulse of Tarquin,
seven hurts i'the body.
Men.
One i'the neck, and two i'the thigh,—There's
nine that I know.
Vol.
He had, before this last expedition, twenty five
wounds upon him.
Men.
Now it's twenty seven: every gash was an enemy's
grave: [Shout, and Flourish, within.] Hark, the
trumpets.
Vol.
These are the ushers of Marcius: before him he
carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears:
Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lye;
Which being advanc'd, declines, and then men die.
A Sennet. Trumpets.
Enter Cominius the General, and T. Lartius;
between them, Coriolanus, crown'd with an oaken
Garland; with Captains, and Soldiers, and a
Herald.
Her.
Know, Rome,14Q0971 that all alone Marcius did fight
Within Corioli' gates: where he hath won,
With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these
In honour follows now, Coriolanus:—
Welcome to Rome, renown'd Coriolanus!
Shout.
Flourish.
all.
Welcome to Rome, renown'd Coriolanus!
Cor.
No more of this, it does offend my heart;
Pray now, no more.
-- 38 --
Com.
Look, sir, your mother:—
Cor.
O,
You have, I know, petition'd all the gods
For my prosperity.
[kneels.
Vol.
Nay, my good soldier, up;
My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and
By deed-atchieving note honour newly nam'd,
What is't, Coriolanus, must I call thee?
But, o, thy wife—
Cor.
My gracious silence, hail!
Would'st thou have laugh'd, had I come coffin'd home,
That weep'st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear,
Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear, note
And mothers that lack sons.
Men.
Now the gods crown thee!
Cor.
And live you yet?—O, my sweet lady, [to Val.] pardon.
Vol.
I know not where to turn:—O, welcome home;—
And welcome, general;—And your note welcome all.
Men.
A hundred thousand welcomes: I could weep,
And I could laugh; I am light, and heavy: Welcome:
A curse begin at very root of's heart,
That is not glad to see thee! You are three,
That Rome should dote on: yet, by the faith of men,
We have some old crab-trees here at home, that will not
Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors:
We call a nettle, but a nettle; and
The faults of fools, but folly.
Com.
Ever right.
Cor.
Menenius, ever, ever.
Her.
Give way there, and go on.
Cor.
Your hand, and yours:
[to his Wife, and Mother.
-- 39 --
Ere in our own house I do shade my head,
The good patricians must be visited;
From whom I have receiv'd not only greetings,
But with them change of honours.14Q0972
Vol.
I have liv'd
To see inherited my very wishes,
And the buildings of my fancy:
Only there's one thing wanting, which, I doubt not,
But our Rome will cast upon thee.
Cor.
Know, good mother,
I had rather be their servant in my way,
Than sway note with them in theirs.
Com.
On, to the capitol.
[Flourish. Ex. in State, as before. Tribunes come forward.
Bru.
All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights
Are spectacl'd to see him: Your pratling nurse
Into a rapture lets her baby cry,
While she chats him: the kitchen malkin pins
Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck,
Clamb'ring the walls to eye him: stalks note, bulks, windows
Are smother'd up, leads fill'd, and ridges hors'd
With variable complexions; all agreeing
In earnestness to see him: seld-shown flamens
Do press among the popular throngs, and puff
To win a vulgar station: our veil'd dames
Commit the war of white and damask, in
Their nicely-gawded cheeks, to the wanton spoil
Of Phœbus' burning kisses: such a pother,
As if that whatsoever god, who leads him,
Were slily crept into his human powers,
And gave him graceful action.
Sic.
On the sudden,
-- 40 --
I warrant him consul.
Bru.
Then our office may,
During his power, go sleep.
Sic.
He cannot temperately14Q0973 transport his honours
From where he should begin, and end; but will
Lose those he hath won.
Bru.
In that there's comfort.
Sic.
Doubt not,
The commoners, for whom we stand, but they,
Upon their ancient malice, will forget,
With the least cause, these his new honours; which
That he will give them, make I as little question
As he is proud to do't.
Bru.
I heard him swear,
Were he to stand for consul, never would he
Appear i'the market-place, nor on him put
The napless vesture of humility;
Nor, shewing (as the manner is) his wounds
To the people, beg their stinking breaths.
Sic.
'Tis right.
Bru.
It was his word: O, he would miss it, rather
Than carry it, but by the suit of the gentry, note
And the desire of the nobles.
Sic.
I wish no better,
Than have him hold that purpose, and to put it
In execution.
Bru.
'Tis most like, he will.
Sic.
It shall be to him then, as our good wills,
A sure destruction.
Bru.
So it must fall out
To him, or our authorities. For an end,—
We must suggest the people, in what hatred
-- 41 --
He still hath held them; that, to his power, he would
Have made them mules, silenc'd their pleaders, and
Disproperty'd note their freedoms: holding them,
In human action and capacity,
Of no more soul, nor fitness for the world,
Than camels in their war; note who have their provender note
Only for bearing burthens, and sore blows
For sinking under them.
Sic.
This, as you say, suggested
At some time when his soaring insolence
Shall reach note the note people, (which time shall not want,
If he be put upon't; and that's as easy,
As to set dogs on sheep) will be as fire note
To kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze
Shall darken him for ever.
Enter a Messenger.
Bru.
What's the matter?
Mes.
You are sent for to the capitol; note 'tis thought,
That Marcius shall be consul: I have seen
The dumb men throng to see him, and the blind
To hear him speak: The matrons flung their gloves,
Ladies and maids their scarfs and handkerchiefs,
Upon him as he pass'd: the nobles bended,
As to Jove's statue; and the commons made
A shower, and thunder, with their caps, and shouts:
I never saw the like.
Bru.
Let's to the capitol;
And carry with us ears and eyes for the time,
But hearts for the event.
Sic.
Have with you.
[Exeunt.
Edward Capell [1767], Mr William Shakespeare his comedies, histories, and tragedies, set out by himself in quarto, or by the Players his Fellows in folio, and now faithfully republish'd from those Editions in ten Volumes octavo; with an introduction: Whereunto will be added, in some other Volumes, notes, critical and explanatory, and a Body of Various Readings entire (Printed by Dryden Leach, for J. and R. Tonson [etc.], London) [word count] [S10601].
