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Here come the lords.

Say no more;

Enter the Lords of the city. Lords. You are most welcome home. Auf.

I have not deserv'd it, But, worthy lords, have you with heed perus'd What I have written to you? Lords.

We have. 1 Lord.

And grieve to hear it. What faults he made before the last, I think, Might have found easy fines: but there to end, Where he was to begin; and give away The benefit of our levies, answering us With our own charge; making a treaty, where There was a yielding; This admits no excuse.

Auf. He approaches; you shall hear him.

Enter Coriolanus, with drums and colours; a crowd

of Citizens with him. Cor. Hail, lords! I am return'd your soldier; No more infected with my country's love, Than when I parted hence, but still subsisting Under your great command. You are to know, That prosperously I have attempted, and With bloody passage, led your wars, even to The gates of Rome. Our spoils we have brought

home, Do more than counterpoise, a full third part, The charges of the action. We have made

peace, With no less honour to the Antiates,

Than shame to the Romans: And we here deliver,
Subscrib’d by the consuls and patricians,
Together with the seal o'the senate, what
We have compounded on.

Read it not, noble lords;
But tell the traitor, in the highest degree
He hath abus'd your powers.

Cor. Traitor!-How now:-

Ay, traitor, Marcius. Cor.

Marcius! Auf. Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius; Dost thou

think I'll grace thee with that robbery, thy stol'n name Coriolanus in Corioli? You lords and heads of the state, perfidiously He has betray'd your business, and given up, For certain drops of salt, your city Rome (I say, your city,) to his wife and mother: Breaking his oath and resolution, like A twist of rotten silk; never admitting Counsel o' the war; but at his nurse's tears He whin’d and roar'd away your victory; That pages blush'd at him, and men of heart Look'd wondering each at other. Cor.

Hear'st thou, Mars Auf. Name not the god, thou boy of tears,Cor.

Ha! Auf. No more.

Cor. Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart Too great for what contains it. Boy! O slave!Pardon me, lords, 'tis the first time that ever

Flutter'd your

I was forc'd to scold. Your judgments, my grave

lords, Must give this cur the lie: and his own notion (Who wears my stripes impressid on him; that must

bear My beating to his grave;) shall join to thrust The lie unto him.

1 Lord. . Peace, both, and hear me speak.

Cor. Cut me to pieces, Volces; men and lads, Stain all your edges on me.- Boy! False hound! If you have writ

your annals true, 'tis there, That, like an eagle in a dove-cote, I

Volces in Corioli:
Alone I did it.- Boy!

Why, noble lords,

you be put in mind of his blind fortune, Which was your shame, by this unholy braggart, 'Fore

your own eyes and ears? Con. Let him die for't. [several speak at once.

Cit. [speaking promiscuously. ] Tear him to pieces, do it presently. He kill'd my son;—my daughter;—He kill'd my cousin Marcus;—He kill'd my father.

2 Lord. Peace, ho;—no outrage;—peace.
The man is noble, and his fame folds in
This orb o' the earth. His last offence to us
Shall have judicious hearing.–Stand, Aufidius,
And trouble not the peace.

O, that I had him,
With six Aufidiuses, or more, his tribe,
To use my lawful sword!



Insolent villain ! Con. Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him.

[Aufidius and the Conspirators draw, and kill

Coriolanus, who falls, and Aufidius stands

on him. Lords.

Hold, hold, hold, hold. Auf. My noble masters, hear me speak. 1 Lord..

O Tullus, 2 Lord. Thou hast done a deed whereat valour

will weep.

3 Lord. Tread not upon him.-Masters all, be

quiet; Put up your swords. Auf. My lords, when you shall know (as in this

rage, Provok'd by him, you cannot,) the great danger Which this man's life did owe you, you'll rejoice That he is thus cut off. Please it your honours To call me to your senate, I'll deliver Myself your loyal servant, or endure Your heaviest censure. 1 Lord.

Bear from hence his body,
And mourn you for him: let him be regarded
As the most noble corse, that ever herald
Did follow to his urn.
2 Lord.

His own impatience
Takes from Aufidius a great part of blame.
Let's make the best of it.

My rage is gone,
And I am struck with sorrow. - Take him up:
Help, three o' the chiefest soldiers; I'll be one.-

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Beat thou the drum, that it speak mournfully:
Trail your steel pikes.—Though in this city he
Hath widow'd and unchilded many a one,
Which to this hour hewail the injury,
Yet he shall have a noble memory. -
Assist. [Exeunt, bearing the bodự of Coriolanus.

A dead march sounded.

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