Sicinius.
Men.
See you yond' coign o' the Capitol; yond'
corner-stone?
Sic.
Why, what of that?
Men.
If it be possible for you to displace it with
your little finger, there is some hope the ladies of
Rome, especially his mother, may prevail with him:
but I say, there is no hope in't. Our throats are sentenced,
and stay upon execution.
Sic.
Is't possible, that so short a time can alter the
condition of a man?
-- 260 --
Men.
There is differency between a grub, and a butterfly;
yet your butterfly was a grub. This Marcius is
grown from man to dragon: he has wings; he's more
than a creeping thing.
Sic.
He loved his mother dearly.
Men.
So did he me; and he no more remembers his
mother now, than an eight year old horse. The tartness
of his face sours ripe grapes: when he walks, he
moves like an engine, and the ground shrinks before
his treading. He is able to pierce a corslet with his
eye; talks like a knell, and his hum is a battery. He
sits in his state, as a thing made for Alexander. What
he bids be done, is finished with his bidding: he wants
nothing of a god but eternity, and a heaven to throne
in.
Sic.
Yes, mercy, if you report him truly.
Men.
I paint him in the character. Mark what
mercy his mother shall bring from him: there is no
more mercy in him, than there is milk in a male tiger;
that shall our poor city find: and all this is 'long of
you.
Sic.
The gods be good unto us!
Men.
No, in such a case the gods will not be good
unto us. When we banished him, we respected not
them; and, he returning to break our necks, they
respect not us.
Enter a Messenger.
Mess.
Sir, if you'd save your life, fly to your house.
The plebeians have got your fellow-tribune,
And hale him up and down; all swearing, if
The Roman ladies bring not comfort home,
They'll give him death by inches.
Enter another Messenger.
Sic.
What's the news?
Mess.
Good news, good news!—The ladies have prevail'd,
-- 261 --
The Volscians are dislodg'd, and Marcius gone.
A merrier day did never yet greet Rome,
No, not the expulsion of the Tarquins.
Sic.
Friend,
Art thou certain this is true? is it most certain?
Mess.
As certain, as I know the sun is fire:
Where have you lurk'd, that you make doubt of it?
Ne'er through an arch so hurried the blown tide,
As the recomforted through the gates. Why, hark you!
[Trumpets and Hautboys sounded, and Drums
beaten, all together. Shouting also within.
The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries, and fifes,
Tabors, and cymbals, and the shouting Romans,
Make the sun dance. Hark you!
[Shouting again.
Men.
This is good news.
I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia
Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians,
A city full; of tribunes, such as you,
A sea and land-full. You have pray'd well to-day:
This morning for ten thousand of your throats
I'd not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy!
[Shouting and Music.
Sic.
First, the gods bless you for their tidings: next,
Accept my thankfulness.
Mess.
Sir, we have all
Great cause to give great thanks.
Sic.
They are near the city.
Mess.
Almost at point to enter.
Sic.
We will meet them,
And help the joy.
[Going.
Enter the Ladies, accompanied by Senators, Patricians,
and People. They pass over the Stage.
1 Sen.
Behold our patroness, the life of Rome!
Call all your tribes together, praise the gods,
-- 262 --
And make triumphant fires; strew flowers before them.
Unshout the noise that banish'd Marcius;
Repeal him with the welcome of his mother:
Cry,—Welcome, ladies, welcome:—
All.
Welcome, ladies!
Welcome!
[A Flourish with Drums and Trumpets.
[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].
