Imagini ale paginilor

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
with an oaken garland; with captains and soldiers,
and a Herald.
Her. Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did

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.

Look, sir, your mother, -Cor.

0! You have, I know, petition'd all the gods For my prosperity.

[Kneels. 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-

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

will not

Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors:
We call a nettle, but a nettle; and
The faults of fools, but folly.

Ever right.
Cor. Menenius, ever, ever.
Her. Give way there, and go on.

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.

I have livid
To see inherited my very wishes,
And the buildings of my fancy: only there
Is one thing wanting, which I doubt not, but
Our Rome will cast upon thee.

Know, good mother,
I had rather be their servant in my way,

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
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 Phæbus' burning kisses: such a pother,
As if that whatsoever god, who leads him,
Were slily crept into his human powers,
And gave him graceful posture.

On the sudden,
I warrant him consul.

Then our office may,
During his power, go sleep.

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

As he is proud to do't.

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.


'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

And the desire of the nobles..

I wish no better,
Than have him hold that purpose, and to put it
In execution.

'Tis most like, he will.
Sic. It shall be to him then, as our good wills;
A sure destruction.

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.

« ÎnapoiContinuați »