is he wounded?-God save your good worships! [To the Tribunes.] Marcius is coming home: he has more cause to be proud.-Where is he wounded?

Vol. I' the shoulder, and i' the left arm: There will be large cicatrices to show the people, when he shall stand for his place. He received in the repulse of Tarquin, seven hurts i' the body.

Men. One in the neck, and two in the thigh,— there's nine that I know.

Vol. He, had, before this last expedition, twentyfive wounds upon him.

Men. Now it's twenty-seven: every gash was an enemy's grave: [A shout, and flourish.] Hark, the trumpets.

Vol. These are the ushers of Marcius: before him He carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears; Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie; Which being advanc'd, declines; and then men die.

A Sennet.

Trumpets sound. Enter Cominius 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 Marcius did

fight

Within Corioli' gates: where he hath won,

With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these
In honour follows, Coriolanus:-

Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

[Flourish.

All. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

Cor. No more of this, it does offend my heart;

Pray now, no more.

Com.

Cor.

Look, sir, your mother,

O!

[Kneels.

You have, I know, petition'd all the gods

For my prosperity.

Vol.
Nay, my good soldier, up;
My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and
By deed-achieving honour newly nam'd,
What is it? Coriolanus, must I call thee?
But O, 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 Corioli wear,

And mothers that lack sons.

Men.

Now the gods crown thee!

Cor. And live you yet?-O my sweet lady, par[To Valeria. Vol. I know not where to turn:-O welcome

don.

home;

And welcome, general;-And you are welcome all. Men. A hundred thousand welcomes: I could

weep,

And I could laugh; I am light, and heavy: Wel

come:

A curse begin at very root of his heart,

That is not glad to see thee!-You are three,
That Rome should dote on: yet, by the faith of men,
We have some old crab-trees here at home, that
will not

Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors:

We call a nettle, but a nettle; and

The faults of fools, but folly.

Com.

Ever right.

Cor. Menenius, ever, ever.

Her. Give way there, and go on.

Cor.

Your hand, and yours:

[To his wife and mother.

Ere in our own house I do shade my head,
The good patricians must be visited;

From whom I have receiv'd not only greetings,

But with them change of honours.

Vol.

To see inherited my very wishes,

I have liv'd

And the buildings of my fancy: only there
Is one thing wanting, which I doubt not, but
Our Rome will cast upon thee.

Cor.

I had rather be their servant in my way,

Know, good mother,

On, to the Capitol.

Ereunt in state, as before.

Than sway with them in theirs.

Com.

[Flourish. Cornets.

The Tribunes come forward.

Bru. All tongues speak of him, and the bleared

sights

Are spectacled to see him: Your prattling nurse
Into a rapture lets her baby cry,

While she chats him: the kitchen malkin pins
Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck,

Clambering the walls to eye him: Stalls, bulks, windows,

Are smother'd up, leads fill'd, and ridges hors'd

With variable complexions; all agreeing

In earnestness to see him: seld-shown flamens
Do press among the popular throngs, and puff
To win a vulgar station: our veil'd dames
Commit the war of white and damask, in
Their nicely-gawded cheeks, to the wanton spoil
Of Phoebus' burning kisses: such a pother,
As if that whatsoever god, who leads him,
Were slily crept into his human powers,

Sic. He cannot temperately transport his honours From where he should begin, and end; but will Lose those that he hath won.

Bru.

In that there's comfort.

Sic. Doubt not, the commoners, for whom we

stand,

But they, upon their ancient malice, will

Forget, with the least cause, these his new honours; Which that he'll give them, make I as little question

As he is proud to do't.

Bru.

I heard him swear,

Were he to stand for consul, never would he
Appear i'the market-place, nor on him put
The napless vesture of humility;

Nor, showing (as the manner is) his wounds.
To the people, beg their stinking breaths.

Sic.

'Tis right.

Bru. It was his word: O, he would miss it, rather

Than carry it, but by the suit o' the gentry to

him,

And the desire of the nobles..

Sic.

I wish no better,

Than have him hold that purpose, and to put it
In execution.

Bru.

'Tis most like, he will.

Sic. It shall be to him then, as our good wills; A sure destruction.

Bru.

So it must fall out

To him, or our authorities. For an end,

We must suggest the people, in what hatred

He still hath held them; that, to his power, he

would

Have made them mules, silenc'd their pleaders, and
Disproperty'd their freedoms: holding them,
In human action and capacity,

Of no more soul, nor fitness for the world,
Than camels in their war; who have their provand
Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows

For sinking under them.

Sic.

This, as you say, suggested

At some time when his soaring insolence

Shall teach the people, (which time shall not want,
If he be put upon't; and that's as easy,

As to set dogs on sheep,) will be his fire
To kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze
Shall darken him for ever.