Thou'lt not believe thy deeds: but I'll report it,
Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles;
Where the dull tribunes,

That, with the fusty plebeians, hate thine honours,
Shall say, against their hearts," We thank the gods,
Our Rome hath such a soldier!"

Mar. Pray, now, no more: my mother, Who has a charter to extol her blood,

When she does praise me, grieves me: I have done, As you have done, that's what I can; induced you have been, that's for my country.

As

Com. You shall not be

The grave of your deserving; Rome must know
The value of her own;

Therefore, I beseech you,

(In sign of what you are, not to reward

What you have done,) before our army hear me. Mar. I have some wounds upon me, and they

smart

To hear themselves remember'd.

Com. Should they not,

Well might they fester 'gainst ingratitude,

And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses,
(Whereof we've ta'en good, and good store,) of all
The treasure, in this field achieved, and city,
We render you the tenth; to be ta'en forth,
Before the common distribution, at

Your only choice.

Mar. I thank you, general;

But cannot make my heart consent to take
A bribe, to pay my sword: I do refuse it.

[A Flourish of Trumpets, &c.
May these same instruments, which you profane,
Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall
I' the field prove flatterers, let camps as cities,
Be made of false-faced soothing. [Flourish again.
No more, I say;

For that I have not wash'd my nose that bled,— Or foil'd some debile wretch, (which without note

Here's many else have done,)-you shout me forth, In acclamations hyperbolical;

As if I loved my little should be dieted

In praises sauced with lies.

Com. Too modest are you;

More cruel to your good report, than grateful
To us that give you truly;

Therefore, be it known,

As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius
Wears this war's garland :-

For what he did before Corioli, call him,

With all the applause and clamour of the host,
Caius Marcius Coriolanus.

The addition nobly ever!

Bear

[Flourish of Trumpets-Shouts, &c.

Cor. I will go wash ;

And when my face is fair, you shall perceive

Whether I blush or no.

Com. So to our tent:

Howbeit, I thank you.

Where, ere we do repose us, we will write
To Rome of our success.

Cor. The gods begin to mock me: I that now
Refused most princely gifts, am bound to beg
Of my lord general.

Com. Take't; 'tis yours.-What is't?

Cor. I some time lay here in Corioli, At a poor man's house; he used me kindly: While we were fighting here e'en now,-poor wretch He cried to me; I saw him prisoner;

But then Aufidius was within my view,

And wrath o'erwhelm'd my pity: I request you
To give my poor host freedom.

Com. O, well begg'd!

Were he the butcher of my son, he should

Be free as is the wind.-His name?

Cor. By Jupiter, forgot :

I'm weary! yea, my memory is tired.-
Have we no wine here?

Com. Go we to our tent;

The blood upon your visage dries: 'tis time

It should be look'd to-Come. [A March.-Exeunt.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.

A Street in Rome.

Enter MENENIUS, SICINIUS, and BRUTUS.

Men. The augurer tells me, we shall have news to-night.

Bru. Good, or bad?

Men. Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not Marcius.

Sic. Nature teaches beasts to know their friends. Men. 'Pray you, whom does the wolf love?

Sic. The lamb.

Men. Ay, to devour him; as the hungry plebeians would the noble Marcius.--You two are old men; tell me one thing that I shall ask you.

Both. Well, sir.

Men. In what enormity is Marcius poor, 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 twe know how

you are censured here in the city; I mean of us o' the right-hand file? do you?

Bru. Why-how are we censured?

Men. Because you talk of pride now,-Will you not be angry ?

Both. Well, well, sir, well.

Men. You blame Marcius for being proud.
Bru. We do it not alone, sir.

Men. I know you can do very little alone.-You talk of pride! O, that you could turn your eyes towards 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 Tiber in't: What I think, I utter; and spend my malice in my breath.

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 orange-wife and a fossetseller, and then rejourn the controversy of three-pence to a second day of audience.-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 entomb'd 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 them were hereditary hangmen. I will be bold to take my leave of you.

[BRUTUS, and SICINIUS, stand aside.

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 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:Hoo! Marcius coming home?

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.-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 :-Brings in victory 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 disciplined Aufidius soundly?

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