Coriolanus

epub:type="z3998:persona">Marcius

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-faced soothing!
When steel grows soft as the parasite’s silk,
Let him be made a coverture for the wars!
No more, I say! For that I have not wash’d
My nose that bled, or foil’d some debile wretch⁠—
Which, without note, here’s many else have done⁠—
You shout me forth
In acclamations hyperbolical;
As if I loved my little should be dieted
In praises sauced with lies.

Cominius

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 incensed, we’ll put you,
Like one that means his proper harm, in manacles,
Then reason safely with you. Therefore, be it known,
As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius
Wears this war’s garland: in token of the which,
My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him,
With all his trim belonging; and from this time,
For what he did before Corioli, call him,
With all the applause and clamour of the host,
Caius Marcius Coriolanus! Bear
The addition nobly ever! Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums.

All Caius Marcius Coriolanus! Coriolanus

I will go wash;
And when my face is fair, you shall perceive
Whether I blush or no: howbeit, I thank you.
I mean to stride your steed, and at all times
To undercrest your good addition
To the fairness of my power.

Cominius

So, to our tent;
Where, ere we do repose us, we will write
To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius,
Must to Corioli back: send us to Rome
The best, with whom we may articulate,
For their own good and ours.

Lartius I shall, my lord. Coriolanus

The gods begin to mock me. I, that now
Refused most princely gifts, am bound to beg
Of my lord general.

Cominius Take’t; ’tis yours. What is’t? Coriolanus

I sometime lay here in Corioli
At a poor man’s house; he used me kindly:
He cried 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.

Cominius

O, well begg’d!
Were he the butcher of my son, he should
Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus.

Lartius Marcius, his name? Coriolanus

By Jupiter! forgot.
I am weary; yea, my memory is tired.
Have we no wine here?

Cominius

Go we to our tent:
The blood upon your visage dries; ’tis time
It should be look’d to: come. Exeunt.

Scene X

The camp of the Volsces.

	A flourish. Cornets. Enter Tullus Aufidius, bloody, with two or three Soldiers.
Aufidius	The town is ta’en!
First Soldier	’Twill be deliver’d back on good condition.
Aufidius	Condition! I would I were a Roman; for I cannot, Being a Volsce, be that I am. Condition! What good condition can a treaty find I’ the part that is at mercy? Five times, Marcius, I have fought with thee; so often hast thou beat me, And wouldst 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’s mine, or I am his: mine emulation Hath not that honour in’t it had; for where I thought to crush him in an equal force, True sword to sword, I’ll potch at him some way Or wrath or craft may get him.
First Soldier	He’s the devil.
Aufidius	Bolder, though not so subtle. My valour’s poison’d With only suffering stain by him; for him Shall fly out of itself: nor sleep nor sanctuary, Being naked, sick, nor fane nor Capitol, The prayers of priests nor times of sacrifice, Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up Their rotten privilege and custom ’gainst My hate to Marcius: where I find him, were it At home, upon my brother’s guard, even there, Against the hospitable canon, would I Wash my fierce hand in’s heart. Go you to the city; Learn how ’tis held; and what they are that must Be hostages for Rome.
First Soldier	Will not you go?
Aufidius	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.
First Soldier	I shall, sir. Exeunt.

Act II

Scene I

Rome. A public place.

	Enter Menenius with the two Tribunes of the people, Sicinius and Brutus.
Menenius	The augurer tells me we shall have news to-night.
Brutus	Good or bad?
Menenius	Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not Marcius.
Sicinius	Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.
Menenius	Pray you, who does the wolf love?
Sicinius	The lamb.
Menenius	Ay, to devour him; as the hungry plebeians would the noble Marcius.
Brutus	He’s a lamb indeed, that baes like a bear.
Menenius	He’s a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two are old men: tell me one thing that I shall ask you.
Both	Well, sir.
Menenius	In what enormity is Marcius poor in, that you two have not in abundance?
Brutus	He’s poor in no one fault, but stored with all.
Sicinius	Especially in pride.
Brutus	And topping all others in boasting.
Menenius	This is strange now: do you two know how you are censured here in the city, I mean of us o’ the right-hand file? do you?
Both	Why, how are we censured?
Menenius	Because you talk of pride now⁠—will you not be angry?
Both	Well, well, sir, well.
Menenius	Why, ’tis no great matter; for a very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience: give your dispositions the reins, and be angry at your pleasures; at the least, if you take it as a pleasure to you in being so. You blame Marcius for being proud?
Brutus	We do it not alone, sir.
Menenius	I know you can do very little alone; for your helps are many, or else your actions would grow wondrous single: your abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone. You talk of pride: O that you could turn your eyes toward the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves! O that you could!
Brutus	What then, sir?
Menenius	Why, then you should discover a brace