Mar.
I'll fight with none but thee, for I do hate thee
Worse than a promise-breaker.

Auf.
We hate alike:
Not Africk owns a serpent I abhor
More than thy fame and envy; fix thy foot.

Mar.
Let the first budger die the other's slave,
And the Gods doom him after.

Auf.
If I fly, Martius, hollow me like a hare.

Mar.
Within these three hours, Tullus,
Alone I fought in your Corioli walls,
And made what work I pleas'd: 'tis not my blood,

Wherein thou see'st me mask'd; for thy revenge
Wrench up thy power to th' highest.

Auf.
Wert thou the Hector,
That was the whip of your bragg'd progeny,
Thou should'st not 'scape me here. [Here they fight, and certain Volscians come to the aid of Aufidius. Martius fights 'till they be driven in breathless.
Officious and not valiant!—you have sham'd me
In your condemned seconds. Flourish. Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Enter at one door Cominius with the Romans: at another door Martius, with his arm in a scarf.

Com.
If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work,
Thou'lt not believe thy deeds: but I'll report it,
Where Senators shall mingle tears with smiles;
Where great Patricians shall attend, and shrug;
I'th' end admire; where ladies shall be frighted,
And gladly quak'd, hear more; where the dull Tribunes,
That with the fusty Plebeians, hate thine honours,
Shall say against their hearts, we thank the Gods
Our Rome hath such a soldier.
Yet cam'st thou to a morsel of this feast,
Having fully din'd before. Enter Titus Lartius with his power from the pursuit.

Lart.
O General,
Here is the steed, we the caparison:
Hadst thou beheld—

Mar.
Pray now, no more: my mother,
Who has a charter to extol her blood,
When she does praise me, grieves me:
I have done as you have done, that's what I can,

Induc'd as you have been, that's for my country;
He that has but effected his good will,
Hath overta'en mine act.

Com.
You shall not be
The grave of your deserving, Rome must know
The value of her own: 'twere a concealment
Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement,
To hide your doings, and to silence that,
Which to the spire and top of praises vouch'd,
Would seem but modest: therefore, I beseech you,
In sign of what you are, not to reward
What you have done, before our army hear me.

Mar.
I have some wounds upon me, and they smart
To hear themselves remembred.

Com.
Should they not,
Well might they fester 'gainst ingratitude,
And tent themselves with death: Of all the horses,
Whereof we have ta'en good, and good store, of all
The treasure in the field atchiev'd, and city,
We render you the tenth, to be ta'en forth,
Before the common distribution,
At your only choice.

Mar.
I thank you, General:
But cannot make my heart consent to take
A bribe, to pay my sword: I do refuse it,
And stand upon my common part with those
That have beheld the doing. [A long flourish. They all cry, Martius! Martius! cast up their caps and launces: Cominius and Lartius stand bare.

Mar.
May these same instruments, which you profane,
Never sound more: when drums and trumpets shall
I'th' field prove flatterers, let courts and cities
Be made all of false-faced soothing.

When steel grows soft, as the parasite's silk,
Let him be made an overture for th' wars:
No more, I say; for that I have not wash'd
My nose that bled, or foil'd some debile wretch,
Which without note here's many else have done,
You shout me forth in acclamations hyberbolical,
As if I lov'd my little should be dieted
In praises, sauc'd with lies.

Com.
Too modest are you:
More cruel to your good report, than grateful
To us, that give you truly: by your patience,
If 'gainst your self you be incens'd, we'll put you
(Like one that means his proper harm) in manacles,
Then reason safely with you: therefore be it known,
As to us, to all the world, that Caius Martius
Wears this war's garland: in token of the which,
My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him,
With all his trim belonging; and from this time,
For what he did before Corioli, call him,
With all th' applause and clamour of the host,
Caius Martius Coriolanus. Bear th' addition nobly ever. [Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums.

Omnes.
Caius Martius Coriolanus!

Mar.
I will go wash:
And when my face is fair, you shall perceive
Whether I blush, or no. Howbeit, I thank you.
I mean to stride your steed, and at all times
To undercrest your good addition,
To th' fairness of my power.

Com.
So, to our tent:
Where, ere we do repose us, we will write
To Rome of our success: you Titus Lartius

Must to Corioli back; send us to Rome
The best, with whom we may articulate,
For their own good, and ours.

Lart.
I shall, my lord.

Mar.
The Gods begin to mock me:
I that but now refus'd most princely gifts,
Am bound to beg of my lord-general.

Com.
Take't, 'tis yours: what is't?

Mar.
I sometime lay here in Corioli,
At a poor man's house: he us'd me kindly.
He cry'd to me: I saw him prisoner:
But then Aufidius was within my view,
And wrath o'er-whelm'd my pity: I request you
To give my poor host freedom.

Com.
O well begg'd:
Were he the butcher of my son, he should
Be free as is the wind: deliver him, Titus.

Lart.
Martius, his name?

Mar.
By Jupiter, forgot:
I am weary; yea, my memory is tir'd:
Have we no wine here?

Com.
Go we to our tent;
The blood upon your visage dries; 'tis time
It should be look'd to: come. [Exeunt.

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