The augurer tells me we shall have news tonight.

Good or bad?

Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not Martius.

Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.

Pray you, who does the wolf love?

The lamb.

Ay, to devour him, as the hungry plebeians would the noble Martius.

He’s a lamb indeed, that baas like a bear.

He’s a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two are old men; tell

me one thing that I shall ask you.

Well, sir.

In what enormity is Martius poor in, that you two have not in

abundance?

He’s poor in no one fault, but stored with all.

Especially in pride.

And topping all others in boasting.

This is strange now. Do you two know how you are censured here in the

city, I mean of us o’ th’ right-hand file, do you?

Why, how are we censured?

Because you talk of pride now, will you not be angry?

Well, well, sir, well?

Why, ’tis no great matter; for a very little thief of occasion will rob

you of a great deal of patience. Give your dispositions the reins, and

be angry at your pleasures, at the least, if you take it as a pleasure

to you in being so. You blame Martius for being proud.

We do it not alone, sir.

I know you can do very little alone, for your helps are many, or else

your actions would grow wondrous single. Your abilities are too

infantlike for doing much alone. You talk of pride. O that you could

turn your eyes toward the napes of your necks and make but an interior

survey of your good selves! O, that you could!

What then, sir?

Why, then you should discover a brace of unmeriting, proud, violent,

testy magistrates, alias fools, as any in Rome.

Menenius, you are known well enough, too.

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?

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

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 faucet-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 chance 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.

Come, come. You are well understood to be a perfecter giber for the

table than a necessary bencher in the Capitol.

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 packsaddle. Yet you must be saying Martius is proud, who,

in a cheap estimation, is worth all your predecessors since Deucalion,

though peradventure some of the best of ’em were hereditary hangmen.

Good e’en 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.

How now, my as fair as noble ladies—and the moon, were she earthly, no

nobler—whither do you follow your eyes so fast?

Honourable Menenius, my boy Martius approaches. For the love of Juno,

let’s go!

Ha? Martius coming home?

Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous approbation.

Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee! Hoo! Martius coming home?

Nay, ’tis true.

Look, here’s a letter from him. The state hath another, his wife

another, and I think there’s one at home for you.

I will make my very house reel tonight. A letter for me?

Yes, certain, there’s a letter for you; I saw it.

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.

O, no, no, no!

O, he is wounded, I thank the gods for’t.

So do I too, if it be not too much. Brings he victory in his pocket,

the wounds become him.

On’s brows, Menenius. He comes the third time home with the oaken

garland.

Has he disciplined Aufidius soundly?

Titus Lartius writes they fought together, but Aufidius got off.

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 Corioles

and the gold that’s in them. Is the Senate possessed of this?

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.

In troth, there’s wondrous things spoke of him.

Wondrous? Ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing.

The gods grant them true.

True? Pow, waw!

True? I’ll be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded? [_To the

Tribunes_.] God save your good Worships! Martius is coming home; he has

more cause to be proud.—Where is he wounded?

I’ th’ shoulder and i’ th’ 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’ th’ body.

One i’ th’ neck and two i’ th’ thigh—there’s nine that I know.

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

Now it’s twenty-seven. Every gash was an enemy’s grave.

Hark, the trumpets!

These are the ushers of Martius: 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.

crowned with an oaken garland, with Captains and Soldiers and a Herald.

Trumpets sound.

Know, Rome, that all alone Martius did fight

Within Corioles’ gates, where he hath won,

With fame, a name to Caius Martius; these

In honour follows “Coriolanus.”

Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus.

Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

No more of this, it does offend my heart.

Pray now, no more.

Look, sir, your mother.

You have, I know, petitioned all the gods

For my prosperity.

Nay, my good soldier, up.

My gentle Martius, worthy Caius, and

By deed-achieving honour newly named—

What is it? Coriolanus must I call thee?

But, O, thy wife—

My gracious silence, hail.

Wouldst thou have laughed had I come coffined home,

That weep’st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear,

Such eyes the widows in Corioles wear

And mothers that lack sons.

Now the gods crown thee!

And live you yet? [_To Valeria_] O my sweet lady, pardon.

I know not where to turn. O, welcome home!

And welcome, general.—And you’re welcome all.

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.

Ever right.

Menenius ever, ever.

Give way there, and go on!

[_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.

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.

Know, good mother,

I had rather be their servant in my way

Than sway with them in theirs.

On, to the Capitol.

Brutus and Sicinius come forward.

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,

Clamb’ring the walls to eye him. Stalls, bulks, windows

Are smothered up, leads filled, 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. Our veiled dames

Commit the war of white and damask in

Their nicely-gauded cheeks to th’ wanton spoil

Of Phoebus’ burning kisses. Such a pother,

As if that whatsoever god who leads him

Were slyly crept into his human powers

And gave him graceful posture.

On the sudden

I warrant him consul.

Then our office may,

During his power, go sleep.

He cannot temp’rately transport his honours

From where he should begin and end, but will

Lose those he hath won.

In that there’s comfort.

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 as little question

As he is proud to do’t.

I heard him swear,

Were he to stand for consul, never would he

Appear i’ th’ marketplace nor on him put

The napless vesture of humility,

Nor showing, as the manner is, his wounds

To th’ people, beg their stinking breaths.

’Tis right.

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

Than have him hold that purpose and to put it

In execution.

’Tis most like he will.

It shall be to him then, as our good wills,

A sure destruction.

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 their war, who have their provand

Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows

For sinking under them.

This, as you say, suggested

At some time when his soaring insolence

Shall touch the people—which time shall not want

If it 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.

What’s the matter?

You are sent for to the Capitol. ’Tis thought

That Martius shall be consul. I have seen

The dumb men throng to see him, and the blind

to hear him speak; matrons flung gloves,

Ladies and maids their scarves and handkerchiefs,

Upon him as he passed; the nobles bended

As to Jove’s statue, and the Commons made

A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts.

I never saw the like.

Let’s to the Capitol;

And carry with us ears and eyes for th’ time,

But hearts for the event.

Have with you.