ing, 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: said to be something imperfect in favouring the first complaint, hasty and tinder-like upon too trivial motion; one that converses more with the buttock of the night than with the forehead of the morning. What I think I utter, and spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two such wealsmen as you are,-I cannot call you Lycurguses,-if the drink you give me touch my palate adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I cannot say your worships have delivered the matter well when I find the ass in compound with the major part of your syllables: and though I must be content to bear with those that say you are reverend grave men, yet they lie deadly that tell you have good faces. If you see this in the map of my microcosm, follows it that I am known well enough too? What harm can your bisson conspectuities glean out of this character, if I be known well enough too?

Bru. Come, sir, come, we know you well enough.

Men. You know neither me, yourselves, nor anything. 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 fosset-seller; and then rejourn the controversy of threepence to a second day of audience.When you are hearing a matter between party and party, if you chanced to be pinched with the colic, you make faces like mummers; set up the bloody flag against all patience; and, in roaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss the controversy bleeding, the more entangled by your hearing all the peace you make in their cause is calling both the parties knaves. You are a pair of strange ones.

Bru. Come, come, you are well understood to be a prefecter 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 entombed in an ass's pack-saddle. Yet you must be saying, Marcius is proud; who, in a cheap estimation, is worth all your perdecessors since Deucalion; though peradventure some of the best of them 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 retire.

Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, VALERIA, &c.

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. Vir. Nay, 'tis true.

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: 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.

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 fidiused for all the chests in Corioli, and the gold that's in them. Is the senate possessed of this?

Vol. 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.

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.

Men. True! I'll be sworn they are true.-Where is he wounded? [To the Tribunes, who come forward.] God 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: 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.

Men. One i' the neck and two i' the thigh, there's nine that I know.

Vol. He had, before this last expedition, twenty-five wounds upon him.

Men. Now it's twenty-seven: every gash was an enemy's grave. [A shout and flourish.] Hark! the

trumpets.

Vol. 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 advanc'd, declines, and then men die.

A sennet. Trumpets sound. LARTIUS; between them, an oaken garland; with Herald.

Enter COMINIUS and TITUS
CORIOLANUS, crowned with
Captains, Soldiers, and a

Her. 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!

All. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! Cor. No more of this, it does offend my heart; Pray now, no more.

Look, sir, your mother!

[Flourish.

Com.

Cor.

0,

You have, I know, petition'd all the gods

[Kneels.

For my prosperity!

Vol.

Nay, my good soldier, up;
My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and
By deed-achieving honour newly nam'd,—
What is it?-Coriolanus must I call thee?
But, 0, thy wife!

Cor.

My gracious silence, hail!

Wouldst thou have laugh'd had I come coffin'd home,
That weep'st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear,
Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear,

And mothers that lack sons.

Men.
Now the gods crown thee!
Cor. And live you yet?-O my sweet lady, pardon.

[TO VALERIA. Vol. I know not where to turn.-O, welcome home;And welcome, general; and you are welcome all.

Men. 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.

Com.

Ever right.

Cor. Menenius ever, ever.
Her. Give way there, and go on!
Cor.

Your hand, and yours:

[To his wife and mother.

Ere in our own house I do shade my head,
The good patricians must be visited;

From whom I have receiv'd not only greetings,
But with them change of honours.

Vol.

To see inherited my very wishes,

I have lived

And the buildings of my fancy: only

There's one thing wanting, which I doubt not but
Our Rome will cast upon thee.

Cor.

Know, good mother,

I had rather be their servant in my way

Than sway with them in theirs.

Com.

On, to the Capitol

[Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before. The Tribunes remain.

Bru. 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 hors'd

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: our 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.

Sic.

I warrant him consul.

Bru.

On the sudden,

Then our office may,

During his power, go sleep.

Sic. He cannot temperately transport his honours From where he should begin and end; but will Lose those that he hath won.

In that there's comfort.

Bru.
Sic. 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'll give them make I as little question
As he is proud to do't.

Bru.
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.

Sic.

"Tis right. Bru. 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.

I wish no better

Sic.
Than have him hold that purpose, and to put it
In execution.

Sic. It shall be to him then, as our good wills, A sure destruction.

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, silenc'd their pleaders, and
Dispropertied their freedoms: holding them,
In human action and capacity,