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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.

are old men: tell me one thing that I shall ask you.

Both Trib. Well, Sir.

You two

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,

angry?

Both Trib. Well, well, Sir; well.

Will you not be

Men. Why, 't is 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 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;

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 say, 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 conspectuities 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 orangewife and a fosset-seller, and then rejourn the controversy of threepence to a second day of audience. When you are hearing a matter between party and party, if you chance to 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 worships: more of your conversation would in

fect 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?

Two Ladies. Nay, 't is 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, 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.

in his pocket? The wounds become him.

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- Brings 'a victory

Vol. On's brows: 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 't was 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?

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- Yes, yes, yes: the senate has

Vol. Good ladies, let's go. letters from the general, wherein he gives my son the whole name He hath in this action outdone his former deeds

of the war.

doubly.

Val. In troth, there 's wondrous things spoke of him.

Men. Wondrous: ay, I warrant you, and not without his

true purchasing.

Vir. The gods grant them true!

Vol. True! pow, wow.

Where is he

Men. True! I'll be sworn they are true. 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,

that I know.

there's nine

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. [4 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, Coriolanus:

:

Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

[Flourish.

All. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! Cor. No more of this; it does offend my heart: Pray now, no more.

Com.

Cor.

Look, Sir, your mother,

You have, I know, petition'd all the gods

For my prosperity.
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.

0!

Now, the gods crown thee!

Men.
Cor. And live you yet? O my sweet lady, pardon.

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[Kneels.

[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.

Your hand,

Cor. Menenius, ever, over.
Her. Give way there, and go on!
Cor.

and yours:

[To his Wife and Mother.

Ere in our own house I do shade my head,

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