|ACT I SCENE IX. The Roman camp.
Flourish. Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Flourish.
Enter, from one side, COMINIUS with the Romans; from
the other side, MARCIUS, with his arm in a scarf
|If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work,
|Thou'ldst not believe thy deeds: but I'll report it
|Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles,
|Where great patricians shall attend and shrug,
|I' the end admire, where ladies shall be frighted,
|And, gladly quaked, hear more; where the
|That, with the fusty plebeians, hate thine honours,
|Shall say against their hearts 'We thank the gods
|Our Rome hath such a soldier.'
|Yet camest thou to a morsel of this feast,
|Having fully dined before.
Enter TITUS LARTIUS, with his power,
from the pursuit
|Here is the steed, we the caparison:
|Hadst thou beheld--
|Pray now, no more: my mother,
|Who has a charter to extol her blood,
|When she does praise me grieves me. I have done
|As you have done; that's what I can; induced
|As you have been; that's for my country:
|He that has but effected his good will
|Hath overta'en mine act.
|You shall not be
|The grave of your deserving; Rome must know
|The value of her own: 'twere a concealment
|Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement,
|To hide your doings; and to silence that,
|Which, to the spire and top of praises vouch'd,
|Would seem but modest: therefore, I beseech you
|In sign of what you are, not to reward
|What you have done--before our army hear me.
|I have some wounds upon me, and they smart
|To hear themselves remember'd.
|Should they not,
|Well might they fester 'gainst ingratitude,
|And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses,
|Whereof we have ta'en good and good store, of all
|The treasure in this field achieved and city,
|We render you the tenth, to be ta'en forth,
|Before the common distribution, at
|Your only choice.
|I thank you, general;
|But cannot make my heart consent to take
|A bribe to pay my sword: I do refuse it;
|And stand upon my common part with those
|That have beheld the doing.
A long flourish. They all cry 'Marcius! Marcius!'
cast up their caps and lances: COMINIUS and LARTIUS
|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.
|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]
|Caius Marcius 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.
|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.
|I shall, my lord.
|The gods begin to mock me. I, that now
|Refused most princely gifts, am bound to beg
|Of my lord general.
|Take't; 'tis yours. What is't?
|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.
|O, well begg'd!
|Were he the butcher of my son, he should
|Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus.
|Marcius, his name?
|By Jupiter! forgot.
|I am weary; yea, my memory is tired.
|Have we no wine here?
|Go we to our tent:
|The blood upon your visage dries; 'tis time
|It should be look'd to: come.