Auf. 1 need not tell thee, that I have perform'd Will stoop to thee for safety? No! my safeguard Gods! O, 'tis an act of cowardice and baseness, Auf. Thou speak'st the truth; it had not. If you will bless me, grant it! Know, for that, Thou should'st return. I pray thee, Marcius, do it: Cor. Till I have clear'd my honour in your council, And prov'd before them all, to thy confusion, The falsehood of thy charge; as soon in battle I would before thee fly, and howl for mercy, As quit the station they have here assigned me. [Crosses to R Auf. Thou can'st not hope acquittal from the Volsci ans. Cor. I do nay more, expect their approbation, Their thanks. I will obtain them such a peace Of their whole nation with imperial Rome, In all her privileges, all her rights; By the just gods, I will. What would'st thou more? Auf. What would I more, proud Roman? This I would Fire the curst forest where these Roman wolves Haunt and infest their nobler neighbours round them; Extirpate from the bosom of this land The genuine seed of outlaws and of robbers. Cor. The seed of gods. "Tis not for thee, vain boaster "Tis not for such as thou, so often spar'd By her victorious sword, to speak of Rome, Of Roman story, than your Volscian annals Auf. Ay, traitor, Marcius. Cor. Marcius! Auf. Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius; dost thou think I'll grace thee with that robbery, thy stol'n name Coriolanus, in Corioli ? You lords and heads o'the state, perfidiously Cor. Hear'st thou, Mars? Auf. Name not the god, thou boy of tears.- Too great for what contains it. Boy!- If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there, Alone I did it. Boy! But let us part; Auf. I court The worst thy sword can do ; while thou from me, Quit then his hostile camp. Once more I tell thee, Cor. O, that I had thee in the field, To use my lawful sword Volu. Insolent villain! [VOLUSIUS and other Volscian Officers draw, and kill CORIOLANUS. Auf. My lords, when you shall know The great danger Which this man's life did owe you, you'll rejoice My rage is gone, And I am struck with sorrow. Bear from hence his body. Let him be regarded As the most noble corse, that ever herald Did follow to his urn. Beat, beat the drum, that it speak mournfully: [Muffled drum. Trail your steel pikes. [The army lower their spears and Ensigns.] Though in your city he Hath widow'd and unchilded many a one, Which to this hour bewail the injury, [A dead March. THE END |