See you yond coign o’ the Capitol, yond cornerstone?

Why, what of that?

If it be possible for you to displace it with your little finger, there

is some hope the ladies of Rome, especially his mother, may prevail

with him. But I say there is no hope in’t. Our throats are sentenced

and stay upon execution.

Is’t possible that so short a time can alter the condition of a man?

There is differency between a grub and a butterfly, yet your butterfly

was a grub. This Martius is grown from man to dragon. He has wings;

he’s more than a creeping thing.

He loved his mother dearly.

So did he me; and he no more remembers his mother now than an

eight-year-old horse. The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes. When

he walks, he moves like an engine, and the ground shrinks before his

treading. He is able to pierce a corslet with his eye, talks like a

knell, and his hum is a battery. He sits in his state as a thing made

for Alexander. What he bids be done is finished with his bidding. He

wants nothing of a god but eternity and a heaven to throne in.

Yes, mercy, if you report him truly.

I paint him in the character. Mark what mercy his mother shall bring

from him. There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male

tiger. That shall our poor city find, and all this is long of you.

The gods be good unto us.

No, in such a case the gods will not be good unto us. When we banished

him, we respected not them; and he returning to break our necks, they

respect not us.

Sir, if you’d save your life, fly to your house.

The plebeians have got your fellow tribune

And hale him up and down, all swearing if

The Roman ladies bring not comfort home,

They’ll give him death by inches.

What’s the news?

Good news, good news! The ladies have prevailed.

The Volscians are dislodged and Martius gone.

A merrier day did never yet greet Rome,

No, not th’ expulsion of the Tarquins.

Friend,

Art thou certain this is true? Is’t most certain?

As certain as I know the sun is fire.

Where have you lurked that you make doubt of it?

Ne’er through an arch so hurried the blown tide

As the recomforted through th’ gates. Why, hark you!

The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries, and fifes,

Tabors and cymbals, and the shouting Romans

Make the sun dance. Hark you!

This is good news.

I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia

Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians

A city full; of tribunes such as you

A sea and land full. You have prayed well today.

This morning for ten thousand of your throats

I’d not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy!

First, the gods bless you for your tidings; next, accept my

thankfulness.

Sir, we have all great cause to give great thanks.

They are near the city?

Almost at point to enter.

We’ll meet them, and help the joy.