Hail, noble Martius!

Mar.
Thanks. What's the matter, you dissentious rogues?
That rubbing the poor itch of your opinion,
Make your selves scabs.

2 Cit.
We have ever your good word.

Mar.
He that will give good words to thee, will flatter
Beneath abhorring. What would you have, ye curs,
That like not peace, nor war? The one affrights you,
The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you,
Where he should find you lions, finds you hares:
Where foxes, geese you are: no surer, no,
Than is the coal of fire upon the ice,
Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is,
To make him worthy, whose offence subdues him,

And curse that justice did it. Who deserves greatness,
Deserves your hate; and your affections are
A sick man's appetite, who desires most that
Which would encrease his evil. He that depends
Upon your favours swims with fins of lead,
And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye—trust ye!
With every minute you do change a mind,
And call him noble that was now your hate,
Him vile, that was your garland. What's the matter,
That in the several places of the city
You cry against the noble Senate, who
(Under the Gods) keep you in awe, which else
Would feed on one another? what's their seeking?

Men.
For corn at their own rates, whereof, they say,
The city is well stor'd.

Mar.
Hang 'em: they say!—
They'll sit by th' fire, and presume to know
What's done i'th' Capitol; who's like to rise,
Who thrives, and who declines: side factions, and give out
Conjectural marriages; making parties strong,
And feebling such as stand not in their liking,
Below their cobbled shooes. They say there's grain enough!
Would the nobility lay aside their ruth,
And let me use my sword, I'd make a quarry
With thousands of these quarter'd slaves, as high
As I could pitch my lance.

Men.
Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded:
For though abundantly they lack discretion,
Yet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech you,
What says the other troop?

Mar.
They are dissolv'd; hang 'em,
They said they were an hungry, sigh'd forth proverbs;
That hunger broke stone walls—that dogs must eat,—

That meat was made for mouths—that the Gods sent not
Corn for the rich men only—With these shreds
They vented their complainings; which being answer'd,
And a petition granted them, a strange one,
To break the heart of generosity,
And make bold power look pale; they threw their caps
As they would hang them on the horns o'th' moon,
^{a note}Shouting their emulation.

Men.
What is granted them?

Mar.
Five tribunes to defend their vulgar wisdoms,
Of their own choice. One's Junius Brutus,
Sicinius Velutus, and I know not—s'death,
The rabble should have first unroost the city
Ere so prevail'd with me! it will in time
Win upon power, and throw forth greater themes
For insurrections arguing.

Men.
This is strange.

Mar.
Go get you home, you fragments. Enter a Messenger.

Mes.
Where's Caius Martius?

Mar.
Here—what's the matter?

Mes.
The news is, Sir, the Volscians are in arms.

Mar.
I am glad on't, then we shall have means to vent
Our musty superfluity. See, our best elders—

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