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Enter Titus Lartius, with his power, from the
Pray now, no more: my mother,
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
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
I thank you, general;
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 foild 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. Com.
Too modest are you; 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
As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius
[Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums. All. Caius Marcius Coriolanus!
Cor. I will go wash;
So, to our tent:
I shall, my lord.
I that now Refusd 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.
O, well begg'd!
Tit. Marcius, his name?
By Jupiter, forgot:-
Go we to our tent; The blood upon your visage dries: 'tis time It should be look'd to: come.
THE CAMP OF THE VOLCES.
A flourish. Cornets. Enter Tullus Aufidius, bloody,
with two or three soldiers. Auf. The town is ta’en! | Sol. 'Twill be deliver'd back on good con
dition. 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 l'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,
He is mine, or I am his: Mine emulation
He's the devil.
fierce hand in his heart. Go you to the
city; Learn, how 'tis held; and what they are, that must Be hostages for Rome. 1 Sol.
Will not you go? Auf. I am attended at the cypress grove: I pray you, ('Tis south the city mills,) bring me word thither How the world goes; that to the pace of it I may spur on my journey. 1 Sol.
I shall, sir. [E.reunt.