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;

Therefore, be it known,

As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius
Wears this war's garland :-

-

For what he did before Corioli, call him,

With all the applause and clamour of the host,
Caius Marcius Coriolanus.

The addition nobly ever!

Bear

[Flourish of Trumpets-Shouts-&c.

Cor. I will go wash;

And when my face is fair, you shall perceive

Whether I blush or no.

Howbeit, I thank you.

Com. So, to our tent:

Where, ere we do repose us, we will write

To Rome of our success.

Cor. The gods begin to mock me: I that now
Refus'd most princely gifts, am bound to beg
Of my lord general.

Com. Take't; 'tis yours.-What is't?
Cor. I some time lay, here in Corioli,
At a poor man's house; he us'd 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.

Com. O, well begg'd!

Where he the butcher of my son, he should

Be free, as is the wind.-His name?

Cor. By Jupiter, forgot:

I'm weary! yea, my memory is tir'd.-
Have we no wine here?

Com. Go we to our tent;

The blood upon your visage dries: 'tis time

It should be look'd to-Come. [A March.-Exeunt.

ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE I.

A Street in Rome.

Enter MENENIUS, SICINIUS, and BRUTUS.

Men. The augurer tells me, we shall have news tonight.

Bru. Good, or bad?

Men. Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not Marcius.

Sic. Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.
Men. 'Pray you, whom does the wolf love?

Sic. The lamb.

Men. Ay, to devour him; as the hungry plebeians would the noble Marcius.-You two are old men; tell me one thing that I shall ask you.

Both. Well, sir.

Men. In what enormity is Marcius poor, that you two have not in abundance?

Bru. He's poor in no one fault, but stor'd with all. Sic. Especially in pride.

Bru. And topping all others in boasting.

Men. This is starnge now.-Do you two know how

you are censured here in the city; I mean of us o’the right hand file? do you?

Bru. Why-how are we censur'd !

Men. Because you talk of pride now,-Will you not be angry?

Both. Well, well, sir, well.

Men. You blame Marcius for being proud.
Bru. We do it not alone, sir.

Men. I know, you can do very little alone.—You talk of pride! O, that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves! O, that you could! Bru. What then, sir?

Men. Why, then you should discover a brace of unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates, (alias fools) as any in Rome.

Sic. Menenius, you are known well enough too. Men. I am known to be a humorous patrician, and one that loves a cup of hot wine, with not a drop of allaying Tiber in't: What I think, I utter; and spend my malice in my breath.

Bru, Come, sir, come, we know you well enough. Men. You know neither me, yourselves, nor any thing. You are ambitious for poor knaves' caps and legs you wear out a good wholesome forenoon, in hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a fossetseller, and then rejourn the controversy of three-pence to a second day of audience.-You are a pair of strange ones.

Bru. Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter giber for the table, than a necessary bencher in the capitol.

Men, Our very priests must become mockers, if they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects as you are. When you speak best unto the purpose, it is not worth the wagging of your beards; and your beards deserve not so honourable a grave, as to stuff a botcher's cushion, or to be entomb'd in an ass's pack

saddle. Yet you must be saying, Marcius is proud; who, in a cheap estimation, is worth all your predecessors, since Deucalion; though, peradventure, some of the best of them were hereditary hangmen. I will be bold to take my leave of you.

[BRUTUS, and SICINIUS, stand aside.

Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and VALERIA. How now, my as fair as noble ladies, (and the moon, were she earthly, no nobler,) whither do you follow your eyes so fast?

Vol. Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius approaches; for the love of Juno, let's go.

Men. Ha! Marcius coming home?

Vol. Ay, worthy Menenius; and with most prosperous approbation.

Men. Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee:Hoo! Marcius coming home?

Vol. Look, here's a letter from him; the state hath another, his wife another; and, I think, there's one at home for you.

Men. I will make my very house reel to-night:— A letter for me?

Vir. Yes, certain, there's a letter for you; I saw it. Men. A letter for me? It gives me an estate of seven years health; in which time, I will make a lip at the physician.-Is he not wounded? he was wont to come home wounded.

Vir. O, no, no, no.

Vol. O, he is wounded, I thank the gods for't. Men. So do I too, if it be not too much :-Brings' a victory in his pocket, the wounds become him. Vol. On's brows, Menenius: he comes the third time home with the oaken garland.

Men. Has he disciplined Aufidius soundly?

Vol. Titus Lartius writes,-they fought together, but Aufidius got off.

Men. And 'twas time for him too, I'll warrant him

that an he had stayed by him, I would not have been so fidius'd for all the chests in Corioli, and the gold that's in them. Is the senate possess'd of this?

Vol. Yes, yes, yes; the senate has letters from the general, wherein he gives my son the whole name of the war he hath in this action outdone his former deeds doubly.

Val. In troth, there's wondrous things spoke of him.

Men. Wondrous! ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing.

Vir. The gods grant them true!

Vol. True?-pow, wow!—

SICINIUS and BRUTUS come forward.

Men. True? I'll be sworn they are true:-Where is he wounded?-Heaven save your good worships! Marcius is coming home: he has more cause to be proud. Where is he wounded?

Vol. I'the shoulder and i'the left arm. 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 upon him.

Men. Now it's twenty-seven: every gash was an enemy's grave.

Vol. He with his single arm subdu'd Corioli.
His sword, death's stamp,

Where it did mark, it took; from face to foot
He was a thing of blood, whose every motion
Was tim'd with dying cries:-

Where'er he went, before him fortune flew,
While victory upon his dreaded brow

Sat thron'd, and joyful clapp'd her silver wings :

Three times mine eagle singled out Aufidius,

And thrice the Volscian sunk beneath his thunder,

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