Enter Titus Lartius, with his power, from the

Here is the steed, we the caparison:

Hadst thou beheld

Mar.

Pray now, no more: my mother,

Who has a charter to extol her blood,

As

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

you

He, that has but effected his good will,

Hath overta'en mine act.

Com.

You shall not be

The grave of your deserving; Rome must know
The value of her own: 'twere a concealment
Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement,
To hide your doings; and to silence that,
Which, to the spire and top of praises vouch'd,
Would seem but modest: 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 have ta'en good, and good store,) of

all

The treasure, in this field achiev'd, 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;
And stand upon my common part with those
That have beheld the doing.

[A long flourish. They all cry, Marcius! Marcius! cast up their caps and lances: Cominius and Lartius, stand bare.

Mar. May these same instruments, which you

profane,

Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall
I' the field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be
Made all of false-fac'd soothing! When steel grows
Soft as the parasite's silk, let him be made
An overture for the wars! 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 lov'd my little should be dieted

In praises sauc'd with lies.

Too modest are you;

Com. More cruel to your good report, than grateful To us that give you truly: by your patience, If 'gainst yourself you be incens'd, we'll put you (Like one that means his proper harm,) in mana

cles,

Then reason safely with you.-Therefore, be it known,

As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius
Wears this war's garland: in token of the which,
My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him,
With all his trim belonging; and, from this time,
For what he did before Corioli, call him,

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

The addition nobly ever!

[Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums.

All. Caius Marcius Coriolanus!

Cor. I will go wash;

And when my face is fair, you shall perceive Whether I blush, or no: Howbeit, I thank you:

I mean to stride your steed; and, at all times,

To undercrest your good addition,

To the fairness of my power.

Com.

So, to our tent:

Where, ere we do repose us, we will write

To Rome of our success,-You, Titus Lartius,
Must to Corioli back: send us to Rome

The best, with whom we may articulate,
For their own good, and ours.

Tit.

I shall, my lord. Cor. The gods begin to mock me. I that now Refus'd most princely gifts, am bound to beg

Of

my lord general.

Com.

Take it 'tis yours.—What is't?

Cor. I sometime lay, here in Corioli,

At a poor man's house; he us'd me kindly:

He cry'd 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. Deliver him, Titus.
Tit. Marcius, his name?

Cor.

By Jupiter, forgot:

I am weary; yea, my memory is tir’d.—
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.

[Exeunt.

SCENE X.

THE CAMP OF THE VOLCES.

A flourish. Cornets. Enter Tullus Aufidius, bloody, with two or three soldiers.

Auf. The town is ta'en!

1 Sol. Twill be deliver'd back on good condition.

Auf. Condition?—

I would, I were a Roman; for I cannot,
Being a Volce, be that I am.-Condition!
What good condition can a treaty find

I' the part that is at mercy? Five times, Marcius,
I have fought with thee; so often hast thou beat

me;

And would'st do so, I think, should we encounter

As often as we eat.-By the elements,

If e'er again I meet him beard to beard,

D

He is mine, or I am his: Mine emulation

Hath not that honour in't, it had; for where
I thought to crush him in an equal force,

(True sword to sword,) I'll potch at him some

way;

Or wrath, or craft, may get him.

1 Sol.

He's the devil.

Auf. Bolder, though not so subtle: My valour's poison'd,

With only suffering stain by him; for him
Shall fly out of itself: nor sleep, nor sanctuary,
Being naked, sick; nor fane, nor Capitol,
The prayers of priests, nor times of sacrifice,
Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up
Their rotten privilege and custom 'gainst
My hate to Marcius: 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 his heart. Go you to the

city;

Learn, how 'tis held; and what they are, that must Be hostages for Rome.

I

1 Sol.

Will not you go?

Auf. I am attended at the cypress grove:

pray you,

('Tis south the city mills,) bring me word thither