1 Rom. 2 Rom. SCENE V. Within the Town. A Street. Enter certain Romans, with Spoils. This will I carry to Rome. 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 hours At a crack'd drachm! Cushions, leaden spoons, To him! Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would My work hath yet not warm'd me. I will appear, and fight. Lart. Fare you well. To Aufidius thus Now the fair goddess, Fortune, Fall deep in love with thee; and her great charms Mar. Thy friend no less Than those she placeth highest! So, farewell. Lart. Thou worthiest Marcius! — Go, sound thy trumpet in the market-place; [Exit MARCIUS Call thither all the officers of the town, Where they shall know our mind. Away! [Exeunt. SCENE VI. Near the Camp of COMINIUS. Enter COMINIUS and Forces, as in retreat. Com. Breathe you, my friends. Well fought: we are come off Like Romans, neither foolish in our stands, Nor cowardly in retire: believe me, Sirs, We shall be charg'd again. Whiles we have struck, By interims and conveying gusts, we have heard Lead their successes as we wish our own, That both our powers, with smiling fronts encountering, Enter a Messenger. Thy news? Mess. The citizens of Corioli have issued, Com. Though thou speak'st truth, Methinks, thou speak'st not well. How long is 't since? Com. 'T is not a mile; briefly we heard their drums: And bring thy news so late? Mess. That does appear as he were flay'd? O gods! He has the stamp of Marcius, and I have Mar. Come I too late? Com. The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabor, More than I know the sound of Marcius' tongue From every meaner man. Mar. Come I too late? Com. Ay, if you come not in the blood of others, But mantled in your own. Mar. O! let me clip you In arms as sound, as when I woo'd; in heart Com. How is 't with Titus Lartius? Flower of warriors, Mar. As with a man busied about decrees: Condemning some to death, and some to exile; Ransoming him, or pitying, threatening the other; Holding Corioli in the name of Rome, Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash, To let him slip at will. Which told me they had beat you to your trenches? Mar. He did inform the truth: but for Com. Let him alone, But how prevail'd you? Mar. Will the time serve to tell? I do not think Where is the enemy? Are you lords o' the field? If not, why cease you till you are so? Com. Marcius, we have at disadvantage fought, And did retire to win our purpose. Mar. How lies their battle? Know you on which side They have plac'd their men of trust? Com. As I guess, Marcius, Their bands i' the vaward are the Antiates, Mar. I do beseech you, By all the battles wherein we have fought, By the blood we have shed together, by the vows Filling the air with swords advanc'd and darts, Com. Though I could wish You were conducted to a gentle bath, And balms applied to you, yet dare I never Mar. action. Those are they (As it were sin to doubt) that love this painting If any think, brave death outweighs bad life, [They all shout, and wave their Swords; take him O me, alone! Make you a sword of me? A shield as hard as his. A certain number, Though thanks to all, must I select from all: the rest As cause will be obey'd. Please you to march; And four shall quickly draw out my command, Which men are best inclin'd. TITUS LARTIUS, having set a Guard upon Corioli, going with Drum and Trumpet toward COMINIUS and CAIUS MARCIUS, enters with a Lieutenant, a Party of Soldiers, and a Scout. Lart. So; let the ports be guarded: keep your duties, As I have set them down. If I do send, despatch Those centuries to our aid; the rest will serve For a short holding: if we lose the field, We cannot keep the town. Lieu. Fear not our care, Sir. Lart. Hence, and shut your gates upon us. Our guider, come; to the Roman camp conduct us. SCENE VIII. [Exeunt. A Field of Battle between the Roman and the Volscian Camps. Alarum. Enter MARCIUS and AUFIDIUS. Mar. I'll fight with none but thee; for I do hate thee Worse than a promise-breaker. Auf. Not Afric owns a serpent, I abhor We hate alike: More than thy fame and envy. Fix thy foot. Mar. Let the first budger die the other's slave, And the gods doom him after! Auf. Halloo me like a hare. If I fly, Marcius, Mar. Within these three hours, Tullus, Alone I fought in your Corioli walls, And made what work I pleas'd. 'T is not my blood, |