Mar.
All the Contagion of the South light on you,
You shames of Rome, you!—herds of boils and plagues
Plaister you o'er, that you may be abhorr'd
Farther than seen, and one infect another
Against the wind a mile!—you souls of geese,
That bear the shapes of men, how have you run
From Slaves, that apes would beat? Pluto and Hell!
All hurt behind, backs red, and faces pale,
With flight, and agued fear! mend, and charge home,
Or, by the fires of Heaven, I'll leave the Foe,
And make my wars on you: look to't, come on;
If you'll stand fast, we'll beat them to their wives,
As they us to our trenches followed. Another Alarum, and Marcius follows them to the gates.
So now the gates are ope: now prove good seconds;
'Tis for the followers, fortune widens them;

Not for the fliers: mark me, and do the like. [He enters the gates, and is shut in.

1 Sol.
Fool-hardiness, not I.

2 Sol.
Nor I.

3 Sol.
See, they have shut him in. [Alarum continues.

All.
To th' pot, I warrant him. Enter Titus Lartius.

Lart.
What is become of Marcius?

All.
Slain, Sir, doubtless.

1 Sol.
Following the fliers at the very heels,
With them he enters; who, upon the sudden,
Clapt to their gates; he is himself alone,
To answer all the City.

Lart.
Oh, noble fellow!
Who, (a) ^note sensible, out-does his senseless sword,
And, when it bows, stands up: thou art left, Marcius—
A carbuncle intire, as big as thou art,
Were not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a soldier
Even to (b) ^noteCato's wish, not fierce and terrible
Only in stroaks, but with thy grim looks, and
The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds,
Thou mad'st thine enemies shake, as if the world
Were feverous, and did tremble. Enter Marcius bleeding, assaulted by the Enemy.

1 Sol.
Look, Sir.—

Lart.
O, 'tis Marcius.
Let's fetch him off, or make remain alike. [They fight, and all enter the City. Enter certain Romans with Spoils.

1 Rom.
This will I carry to Rome.

2 Rom.
And I this.

3 Rom.
A murrain on't, I took this for silver. [Alarum continues still afar off. Enter Marcius and Titus Lartius, with a Trumpet.

Mar.
See here these Movers, that do prize their honours
At a crack'd drachm: cushions, leaden spoons,
Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would
Bury with those that wore them, these base slaves,
Ere yet the fight be done, pack up; down with them;
And hark, what noise the General makes!—to him;—
There is the man of my soul's hate, Aufidius,
Piercing our Romans: then, valiant Titus, take
Convenient numbers to make good the City;
Whilst I, with those that have the spirit, will haste
To help Cominius.

Lart.
Worthy Sir, thou bleed'st;
Thy exercise hath been too violent
For a second course of fight.

Mar.
Sir, praise me not:
My work hath yet not warm'd me. Fare you well:
The blood, I drop, is rather physical
Than dangerous to me.
T' Aufidius thus I will appear, and fight.

Lart.
Now the fair Goddess Fortune
Fall deep in love with thee, and her great charms
Misguide thy opposers' swords! bold gentleman!
Prosperity be thy page!

Mar.
Thy friend no less,
Than those she placeth highest! so, farewel.

Lar.
Thou worthiest Marcius,
Go, sound thy trumpet in the market-place,
Call thither all the officers o'th' town,
Where they shall know our mind. Away. [Exeunt.

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