BRUTUS Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter giber for the table than a necessary bencher in the Capitol.
MENENIUS 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 entombed in an ass’s pack- saddle. Yet you must be saying, Marcius is proud; who in a cheap estimation, is worth predecessors since Deucalion, though peradventure some of the best of ’em were hereditary hangmen. God-den to your worships: more of your conversation would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians: I will be bold to take my leave of you.
BRUTUS and SICINIUS go 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?
VOLUMNIA Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius approaches; for
the love of Juno, let’s go.
MENENIUS Ha! Marcius coming home!
VOLUMNIA Ay, worthy Menenius; and with most prosperous
approbation.
MENENIUS Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee. Hoo!
Marcius coming home!
VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA Nay,’tis true.
VOLUMNIA Look, here’s a letter from him: the state hath
another, his wife another; and, I think, there’s one
at home for you.
MENENIUS I will make my very house reel tonight: a letter for
me!
VIRGILIA Yes, certain, there’s a letter for you; I saw’t.
MENENIUS A letter for me! it gives me an estate of seven
years’ health; in which time I will make a lip at
the physician: the most sovereign prescription in
Galen is but empiricutic, and, to this preservative,
of no better report than a horse-drench. Is he
not wounded? he was wont to come home wounded.
VIRGILIA O, no, no, no.
VOLUMNIA O, he is wounded; I thank the gods for’t.
MENENIUS So do I too, if it be not too much: brings a’
victory in his pocket? the wounds become him.
VOLUMNIA On’s brows: Menenius, he comes the third time home
with the oaken garland.
MENENIUS Has he disciplined Aufidius soundly?
VOLUMNIA Titus Lartius writes, they fought together, but
Aufidius got off.
MENENIUS And ’twas time for him too, I’ll warrant him that:
an he had stayed by him, I would not have been so
fidiused for all the chests in Corioli, and the gold
that’s in them. Is the senate possessed of this?
VOLUMNIA Good ladies, let’s go. 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
VALERIA In troth, there’s wondrous things spoke of him.
MENENIUS Wondrous! ay, I warrant you, and not without his
true purchasing.
VIRGILIA The gods grant them true!
VOLUMNIA True! pow, wow.
MENENIUS True! I’ll be sworn they are true.
Where is he wounded?
To the Tribunes
God save your good worships! Marcius is coming
home: he has more cause to be proud. Where is he wounded?
VOLUMNIA I’ 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.
MENENIUS One i’ the neck, and two i’ the thigh,–there’s
nine that I know.
VOLUMNIA He had, before this last expedition, twenty-five
wounds upon him.
MENENIUS Now it’s twenty-seven: every gash was an enemy’s grave.
A shout and flourish
Hark! the trumpets.
VOLUMNIA 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 advanced, declines, and then men die.
A sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter COMINIUS the general, and TITUS LARTIUS; between them, CORIOLANUS, crowned with an oaken garland; with Captains and Soldiers, and a Herald
Herald Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight
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!
CORIOLANUS No more of this; it does offend my heart:
Pray now, no more.
COMINIUS Look, sir, your mother!
CORIOLANUS O,
You have, I know, petition’d all the gods
For my prosperity!
Kneels
VOLUMNIA Nay, my good soldier, up;
My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and
By deed-achieving honour newly named,–
What is it?–Coriolanus must I call thee?–
But O, thy wife!
CORIOLANUS My gracious silence, hail!
Wouldst thou have laugh’d had I come coffin’d home,
That weep’st to see me triumph? Ay, my dear,
Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear,
And mothers that lack sons.
MENENIUS Now, the gods crown thee!
CORIOLANUS And live you yet?
To VALERIA
O my sweet lady, pardon.
VOLUMNIA I know not where to turn: O, welcome home:
And welcome, general: and ye’re welcome all.
MENENIUS A hundred thousand welcomes. I could weep
And I could laugh, I am light and heavy. Welcome.
A curse begin at very root on’s 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.
COMINIUS Ever right.
CORIOLANUS Menenius ever, ever.
Herald Give way there, and go on!
CORIOLANUS [To VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA]
Your hand, and yours:
Ere in our own house I do shade my head,
The good patricians must be visited;
From whom I have received not only greetings,
But with them change of honours.
VOLUMNIA I have lived
To see inherited my very wishes
And the buildings of my fancy: only
There’s one thing wanting, which I doubt not but
Our Rome will cast upon thee.
CORIOLANUS Know, good mother,
I had rather be their servant in my way,
Than sway with them in theirs.
COMINIUS On, to the Capitol!
Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before. BRUTUS and SICINIUS come forward
BRUTUS 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 horsed
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: or veil’d dames
Commit the war of white and damask in
Their nicely-gawded cheeks to the wanton spoil
Of Phoebus’ 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.
SICINIUS On the sudden,
I warrant him consul.
BRUTUS Then our office may,
During his power, go sleep.
SICINIUS He cannot temperately transport his honours
From where he should begin and end, but will
Lose those he hath won.
BRUTUS In that there’s comfort.
SICINIUS 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 will give them make I as little question
As he is proud to do’t.
BRUTUS 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.
SICINIUS ‘Tis right.
BRUTUS It was his word: O, he would miss it rather
Than carry it but by the suit of the gentry to him,
And the desire of the nobles.
SICINIUS I wish no better
Than have him hold that purpose and to put it
In execution.
BRUTUS ‘Tis most like he will.
SICINIUS It shall be to him then as our good wills,
A sure destruction.
BRUTUS 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’s power he would
Have made them mules, silenced their pleaders and
Dispropertied their freedoms, holding them,
In human action and capacity,
Of no more soul nor fitness for the world
Than camels in the war, who have their provand
Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows
For sinking under them.
SICINIUS This, as you say, suggested
At some time when his soaring insolence
Shall touch 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.
Enter a Messenger
BRUTUS What’s the matter?