« ÎnapoiContinuați »
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. l' 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
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
A Sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter Cominius and
Titus Lartius; between them, Coriolanus, crown'd
[Flourish. All. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus !
Cor. No more of this, it does offend my heart; Pray now, no more. Com.
Look, sir, your mother, -Cor.
0! You have, I know, petition'd all the gods For my prosperity.
Nay, my good soldier, up;
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, pardon.
[To Valeria. Vol. I know not where to turn:-0 welcome
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
Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors:
Your hand, and yours:
[To his wife and mother.
I have livid
Know, good mother,
with them in theirs. Com.
On, to the Capitol. [Flourish. Cornets.
Ereunt in state, as before. 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
On the sudden,
Then our office may,
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 ques
I heard him swear,
'Tis right. Bru. It was his word: 0, he would miss it, ra
ther Than carry it, but by the suit o' the gentry to
I wish no better,
'Tis most like, he will.
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.