If I should tell thee o’er this thy day’s work,

Thou’t not believe thy deeds. But I’ll report it

Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles;

Where great patricians shall attend and shrug,

I’ th’ end admire; where ladies shall be frighted

And, gladly quaked, hear more; where the dull tribunes,

That with the fusty plebeians hate thine honours,

Shall say against their hearts “We thank the gods

Our Rome hath such a soldier.”

Yet cam’st thou to a morsel of this feast,

Having fully dined before.

O general,

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 vouched,

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 remembered.

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 “Martius, Martius!” and cast up their

caps and lances. Cominius and Lartius stand bare._]

May these same instruments which, you profane,

Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall

I’ th’ field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be

Made all of false-faced soothing! When steel grows soft

Soft as the parasite’s silk, let him be made

An ovator for the wars! No more, I say.

For that I have not washed my nose that bled,

Or foiled 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 Martius

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 Corioles, call him,

With all th’ applause and clamour of the host,

Caius Martius Coriolanus! Bear

Th’ addition nobly ever!

Caius Martius 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 th’ 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 Corioles 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 Corioles

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’erwhelmed my pity. I request you

To give my poor host freedom.

O, well begged!

Were he the butcher of my son, he should

Be free as is the wind.—Deliver him, Titus.

Martius, 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 looked to. Come.