Brutus.
Men.
The augurer tells me, we shall have news to-night.
-- 172 --
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, whom 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.
Both Trib.
Well, sir.
Men.
In what enormity is Marcius poor in, that you
two have not in abundance?
Bru.
He's poor in no one fault, but stored with all.
Sic.
Especially, in pride.
Bru.
And topping all others in boasting.
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?
Both Trib.
Why, how are we censured?
Men.
Because you talk of pride now,—Will you not
be angry?
Both Trib.
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
-- 173 --
make but an interior survey of your good selves! O,
that you could!
Bru.
What then, sir?
Men.
Why, then you should discover a brace of
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 Tyber in't: said to be something imperfect, in
favouring the first complaint; 11Q0868 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 weals-men as you
are, (I cannot call you Lycurguses) if the drink you
give me touch my palate adversely, I make a crooked
face at it. I cannot say3 note, your worships have delivered
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 they lie deadly, that tell, 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 conspectuities4 note 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
-- 174 --
be pinched with the colic, you make faces like mummers,
set up the bloody flag against all patience, and,
in roaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss the controversy
bleeding, the more entangled 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
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 wagging of your beards; and your beards
deserve not so honourable a grave as to stuff a botcher's
cushion, or to be entombed 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
'em were hereditary hangmen. Good den to your worships5 note:
more of your conversation would infect my
brain, being the herdsman of the beastly plebeians. I
will be bold to take my leave of you.
Brutus and Sicinius retire to the back of the Scene.
Enter Volumnia, Virgilia, and Valeria, &c.
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?
-- 175 --
Two Ladies.
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.
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 empiricutic, 11Q0869 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?—The wounds become him.
Vol.
On's brows6 note: Menenius, he comes the third
time home with the oaken garland.
Men.
Has he disciplined Aufidius soundly?
Vol.
Titus Lartius writes, they fought together, but
Aufidius got off.
Men.
And 'twas time for him too; I'll warrant him
that: an he had stay'd by him, I would not have been so
fidiused for all the chests in Corioli, and the gold that's
in them. Is the senate possessed 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.
-- 176 --
Vir.
The gods grant them true!
Vol.
True! pow, wow.
Men.
True! I'll be sworn they are true.—Where is
he wounded?—God save your good worships! [To the
Tribunes, who come forward.] 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 show 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. [A Shout and Flourish.] 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 lie;
Which, being advanc'd, declines, and then men die.
A Sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter Cominius and Titus
Lartius; between them, Coriolanus, crowned with
an oaken Garland; with Captains, Soldiers, and a Herald.
Her.
Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight
Within Corioli's gates: where he hath won,
With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these
In honour follows, Coriolanus7 note:—
Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!
[Flourish.
-- 177 --
All.
Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!
Cor.
No more of this; it does offend my heart:
Pray now, no more.
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-achieving honour newly nam'd,
What is it? 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,
And mothers that lack sons.
Men.
Now, the gods crown thee!
Cor.
And live you yet?—O my sweet lady, pardon.
[To Valeria.
Vol.
I know not where to turn:—O! welcome home;
And welcome, general;—and you are 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 on'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.
-- 178 --
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.
Vol.
I have lived
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 with them in theirs.
Com.
On, to the Capitol!
[Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before.
The Tribunes remain8 note.
Bru.
All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights
Are spectacled to see him: your prattling nurse
Into a rapture lets her baby cry9 note
While she chats him:11Q0870 the kitchen malkin10 note pins
Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck1 note,
Clambering the walls to eye him: stalls, bulks, windows,
Are smother'd up, leads fill'd, and ridges hors'd
-- 179 --
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 posture.
Sic.
On the sudden
I warrant him consul.
Bru.
Then our office may,
During his power, go sleep.
Sic.
He cannot temperately 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'll 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, showing (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 o' the gentry to him,
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.
-- 180 --
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
He still hath held them; that to his power he would
Have made them mules, silenc'd their pleaders, and
Dispropertied their freedoms; holding them,
In human action and capacity,
Of no more soul, nor fitness for the world,
Than camels in their war; who have their provand2 note
Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows
For sinking under them.
Sic.
This, as you say, suggested
At some time when his soaring insolence
Shall teach the people 11Q08713 note, (which time shall not want,
If he be put upon't; and that's as easy,
As to set dogs on sheep) will be his fire
To kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze
Shall darken him for ever.
Enter a Messenger.
Bru.
What's the matter?
Mess.
You are sent for to the Capitol. 'Tis thought,
That Marcius shall be consul. I have seen
The dumb men throng to see him, and the blind
To hear him speak: matrons flung 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.
-- 181 --
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.
J. Payne Collier [1842–1844], The works of William Shakespeare. The text formed from an entirely new collation of the old editions: with the various readings, notes, a life of the poet, and a history of the Early English stage. By J. Payne Collier, Esq. F.S.A. In eight volumes (Whittaker & Co. [etc.], London) [word count] [S10101].
