Sivut kuvina

Embarkments all of fury, shall lift up
Their rotten Privilege, and Custom 'gainst
My hate to Martins. Where I find him, were it
At home, upon my Brother's Guard, even there
Against the Hospitable Canon, would I
Wash my fierce Hand in's Heart. Go you to the City,
Learn how 'tis held, and what they are that must
Be Hoftages for Rome.

Sol. Will not you go?

Auf. I am attended at the Cypress Grove. I pray you
('Tis South the Ciry Mill) bring me word thither
How the World goes, that to the pace of it
I may spur on my Journey.
Sol. I shall, Sir.



Enter Menenius with Sicinius.

'T Night

Men. 'HE Augurer tells me, we shall have News to

Bru. Good or bad ?

Men. Not according to the Prayer of the People, for they love not Martius.

Sic. Nature teaches Beasts to know their friends.
Men. Pray you, who does the Wolf love?
Stc. The Lamb.

Men. Ay, to devour him, as the hungry Plebeians would the noble Martius.

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. Well, Sir.

Men. In what Enormity is Martius poor in, that you two have not in abundance ?

Bru. He's poor in no one Fault, but stor'd with all.
Sic. Especially Pride.

Bry os


Bru. And topping all others in boast.

Men. This is strange now! Do you two know how you are censured here in the City, I mean of us o'th’ right hand File, do you?

Bru. Why.---how are we censur’d?
Men. Because you talk of Pride now, will you not be
Both. 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 for you blame Martius 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 A&ions would grow wondrous single; your Abilities are too Infant-like, for doing much alone. You talk of Pride-Oh, that you could turn your Eyes towards the Napes of your Necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves, Oh that

Brs. What then, Sir?

Men. Why then you Mould discover a brace of as unmeriting, proud, violent, testy Magistrates, alias Fools, as

you could!

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 Tiber in't : Said to be something imperfe& in favouring the first Complaint, hasty and Tinder-like, upon to 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. Meetting two such Weals-men as you are (I cannot call you Lycurgusses) if the Drink you give me touch my Palate adver. fly, I make a crooked Face at it. I can say, your Worships have deliver'd the Matter well, when I find the Ass in compound with the Major part of your Syllables. And tho’I must be content to bear with those that say you are Reverend Grave, yet they lye deadly that tell you have good Faces ; if you see this in the Map of my Microcosm, fol. lows it that I am known well enough too? What harm cao your Besom Conspe&uities glean out of this Chara&er, if I be known well enough too? Br». Come, Sir, come, we know you well enough.


Men. You know neither me, your selves, nor any thing; you are ambitious for poor Knaves Caps and Legs : You wear out a good wholsom Forenoon, in hearing a Cause between an Orange-wife and a Fauset-seller, and then rejourn the Controversie of Three Pence to a second Day of Audience. When you are hearing a Matter between a Party and Party, if you chance to be pinch'd with the Cholick, you make Faces like Mummers, set up the bloody Flag against all Patience and in roaring for a Chamberpot,

dismiss the Controversie Bleeding, the more intang, led 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 perfecer Gyber for the Table, than a necessary Bencher in the Capitol.

Men. Our very Priests must become Mockers, if they shall encounter such ridiculous Subje&s 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 intombid in an Asses Pack-saddle. Yet you must be faying, Martius is proud ; who in a cheap Estimation, 'is worth all your Prodecessors fince Deucalion, though peradventure some of the best of 'em were hereditary Hangmen. Good-e’en to your Worships ; more of

your Conversation would infeở my Brain, being the Herdsmen of the beastly Plebeians. I will be bold to take


[Exeunt Brutus and Sicinius. Enter Volumnia, Virgilia and Valeria. How now (my as fair as noble) Ladies, and the Moon were she Earthly, no Nobler ; whither do you follow your Eyes so falt?

Vol. Honourable Menenius, my Boy Martins approaches; for the love of Juno let's go.

Men. Ha! Martins coming home?'

Vol. Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous Apa probation.


my leave of

Men. Take my Cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee- -hoos Martius coming home?

Both. Nay, 'cis true.

Val. Look, here's a Letter from him, the State hath ano, ther, 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 sawit.

Men. A Letter for me? it gives me an Estate of seven Years health; in which time I will make a Lip at the Phy. fician: The most Sovereign Prescription in Galen is but Enperi&tick, and to this Preservative, of no better report than à Horse-drench. Is he not wounded? he was wont to come home wounded ?

Vir. Oh no, no, no.
Vol. Oh, he is wounded, I thank the Gods for's.

Men. So do I too, if he be not too much; brings a Vi. &ory in his Pocket? the Wounds become him.

Vol. On's Brows; Menenius, he comes the third time home with the Oaken Garland.

Men. Has he disciplin’d Aufidius soundly?

Vol. Titus Lartius writes, they fought together, but Axfidius got off,

Men. And 'twas time for him too, I'll warrant him that; and he had staid by him, I would not have been so fiddiou. sed for all the Chests in Coriolus, and the Gold that's in them. Is the Senate poffest of this?

Vol. Good Ladies, let's go. Yes, yes, yes: The Senate kas Letters from the General, wherein he gives my Son the whole Name of the War, he hath in this Axion out-done 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.

Vir. The Gods grant them true.
Vol. True? pow waw.

Men. True I'll be sworn they are true, where is he wounded, God save your good Worships? Martius is coming home; he has more cause to be proud : Where is he wounded?

Vol. I'th' Shoulder, and i'th' left Arm, there will be large Cicatrices to thew the People, when he shall stand for his place; he receivid in the Repulse of Tarquin seven hurts i'ch' Body

Men. One i'th' Neck, and two i'ch' Thigh; there's nine that I know.

Vol. He had, before his last Expedition, twenty five Wounds


him. Men. Now it's twenty seven, every gash was an Enemy's Grave. Hark, the Trumpets. [A Shont and Flourish.

Vol. These are the Users of Martius; Before him he carries Noise, And behind him he leaves Tears: Death, that dark Spirit, in's nervy Arm doth lye, Which being advanc’d, declines, and then Men dye. A Sonnet. Trumpets found. Enter Cominius the General, and

Titus Lartius; between them Coriolanus, crown'd with an
Oaken Garland, with Captains and Soldiers, and a Herald,

Her. Know, Rome, that all alone Martins did fight
Within Coriolus Gates, where he hath won,
With Fame, a Name to Caius Martius.
These in Honour follows, Caius Martins, Coriolanus.
Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus.

[Sound. Flourish. 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. Oh! you have, I know, petition'd all the Gods for my Prosperity.

Vol. Nay, my good Soldier, up
My gentle Martins, worthy Caius,
And by dced-atchieving Honour newly namid,
What is it, Coriolanus, must I call thee?
But oh, 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 Coriolus wear,
And Mothers that lack Sons.


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