To see him then step in, and steal our glory!
O, that we first had perish'd all! A people,
Who cannot find in their own proper force
Their own protection, are not worth the saving.
Auf. It must have way; I will no more suppress

it.—

Know then, my valiant friend, no less than thee,
His conduct hurts me, and upbraids my folly.
I wake as from a dream. What dæmon mov'd me,
What doating generosity, to exalt him

To the same level, nay, above myself?

To yield him the command of half my troops?
That, that was madness,

Was weak, was mean, unworthy of a man!-
How shall I from this labyrinth escape?
Must it then be? What cruel genius dooms me?
In war or peace, to creep beneath his fortune?
Vol. That genius is thyself. If thou canst bear
The very thought of stooping to this Roman,
Thou from that moment art his vassal, Tullus;
By that thou dost acknowledge, parent nature
Has form'd him thy superior. But if, fix'd
Upon the base of manly resolution,

Thou say'st, I will be free,-I will command,-
I and my country;-then-O, never doubt it,--
We shall find means to crush this vain intruder :-
Even I myself, this hand-Nay, hear me, Tullus;-
'Tis not yet come to that, that last resource:

I do not say, we should employ the dagger,
While other, better means are in our power.
Auf. No, my Volusius, fortune will not drive us,
Or I am much deceiv'd, to that extreme:
We shall not want the strongest, fairest, plea,
To give a solemn sanction to his fate:
He will betray himself: Whate'er his rage
Of passion talks, a weakness for his country
Sticks in his soul, and he is still a Roman.
Soon shall we see him tempted to the brink

1

Of this sure precipice ;-then down at once,
Without remorse, we hurl him to perdition.

[Trumpet sounds.

But hark,--the trumpet calls us to a scene,
I should detest; if not from hope we thence
May gather matter to mature our purpose.

[A March.-Exeunt.

Enter MENENIUS, meeting BRUTUS and SICINIUS.

Men. O, you have made good work!

Bru. What news? what news?

Sic. 'Pray now, your news?

Men. You have made good work,

You, and

your apron-men; you that stood so much

Upon the voice of occupation, and

The breath of garlick-eaters!

Sic. We're all undone, unless

The noble man have mercy.

Men. Who shall ask it?

The tribunes cannot do't for shame; the people
Deserve such pity of him, as the wolf

Does of the shepherds.

If he were putting to my house the brand
That should consume it, I have not the face

66

Το say, Beseech you, cease."-You have made fair

hands,

You and your crafts! you have crafted fair!

Enter the CITIZENS.

Here comes the clusters.

You are they,

That made the air unwholesome, when

you cast

Your stinking, greasy caps, in hooting at
Coriolanus' exile. Now he's coming;
And not a hair upon a soldier's head,

Which will not prove a whip; as many coxcombs,
As you threw caps up, will he tumble down,
And pay you for your voices. "Tis no matter;

If he could burn us all into one coal,

We have deserv'd it.

2 Cit. For mine own part,

When I said," Banish him," I said, 'twas pity. 1 Cit. And so did I.

3 Cit. And so did I; and, to say the truth, so did very many of us: That, we did, we did for the best; and though we willingly consented to his banishment, yet it was against our will.

Men. You are goodly things,-you voices !— You have made

Good work, you and your cry.—

But here's Cominius; he will tell you news.

Enter COMINIUS, and SENATORs.

Have you prevail'd? Will he have mercy on us? What hope has Rome yet? How did he receive you?

Com. He would not seem to know me.

Men. Do you hear?

Com. Yet one time he did call me by my name:
I urg'd our old acquaintance, and the drops
That we have bled together. Coriolanus
He would not answer to: forbad all names:
He was a kind of nothing, titleless,

Till he had forg'd himself a name i'the fire
Of burning Rome.

Men. Why, so; you've made good work:
A pair of tribunes that have reck'd for Rome,
To make coals cheap: A noble memory!

Com. I minded him, how royal 'twas to pardon, When it was least expected. He reply'd,

It was a bare petition of a state
To one whom they had punish'd.

Men. Very well:

Could he say less?

Com. I offer'd to awaken his regard

For his private friends: His answer to me was,
He could not stay to pick them in a pile
Of noisome, musty chaff: He said, 'twas folly,
For one poor grain or two, to leave unburnt,
And still to nose, the offence.

Men. For one poor grain

Or two? I am one of those; his mother, wife.
His child, and this brave fellow too, we are the

grains:

You are the musty chaff; and you are smelt

Above the moon: We must be burnt for you.

Sic. Nay, 'pray, be patient: If you refuse your aid In this so never-needed help, yet do not

Upbraid us with our distress. But, sure, if you Would be your country's pleader, your good tongue, More than the instant army we can make,

Might stop our countryman.

Men. No: I'll not meddle,
Sic. I pray you, go to him.
Men. What should I do?

Bru. Only make trial what your love can do,
For Rome, towards Marcius.

Com. He'll never hear him.

Sic. Not?

Com. I tell you, he does sit in gold, his

eye

Red as 'twould burn Rome; and his injury
The gaoler to his pity. I kneel'd before him:
'Twas very faintly he said, " Rise;" dismiss'd me
Thus, with his speechless hand: What he would do,
He sent in writing after me; what he would not,
Bound with an oath, to yield to his conditions:
So that all hope is vain,

Unless his noble mother, and his wife;
Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him

For mercy to his country.

Men. See you yond' coign o'the capitol, yond' cor

ner-stone?

Sic. Why, what of that?

Men. If it be possible for you to displace it with your little finger, there is some hopes the ladies of Rome, especially his mother, may prevail with him. Sic. Is it possible, that so short a time can alter the condition of a man?

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 lov'd his mother dearly.

Men. So did he me: and he no more remembers his mother now, than an eight year old horse. 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.

1 Cit. O doleful tidings!

2 Cit. O woful day!

3 Cit. What will become of us?

All the Citizens. 0, 0, 0 !—

1 Cit. Let us seize the two tribunes, that did banish him, and throw them down the Tarpeian rock. Sic. O, good Menenius, save us !

Bru. Stand our friend!

one to me.

Men. Not I; they may hang, drown, burn, or break your worthless necks from the rock; 'tis all [Exit MENENIUS. All. Away with them, away with them! Com. Hear me, fellow citizens ! Suspend awhile your anger, till you hear How the entreaties of his mother, wife,