Flouriſh. Alarum. A Retreat is ſounded. Enter at
one Doore Cominius, with the Romanes: At
another Doore Martius, with his
Arme in a Scarfe.
If I ſhould tell thee o're this thy dayes Worke,
Thou't not beleeue thy deeds: but Ile report it,
Where Senators ſhall mingle teares with ſmiles,
Where great Patricians ſhall attend, and ſhrug,
I'th'end admire: where Ladies ſhall be frighted,
And gladly quak'd, heare more: where the dull Tribunes,
That with the fuſtie Plebeans, hate thine Honors,
Shall ſay againſt their hearts, We thanke the Gods
Our Rome hath ſuch a Souldier.
Yet cam'ſt thou to a Morſell of this Feaſt,
Hauing fully din'd before.
Enter Titus with his Power, from the Purſuit.
Here is the Steed, wee the Capariſon:
Hadſt thou beheld—
Pray now, no more:
My Mother, who ha's a Charter to extoll her Bloud,
When ſhe do's prayſe me, grieues me:
I haue done as you haue done, that's what I can,
Induc'd as you haue beene, that's for my Countrey:
He that ha's but effected his good will,
Hath ouerta'ne mine Act.
You ſhall not be the Graue of your deſeruing,
Rome muſt know the value of her owne:
'Twere a Concealement worſe then a Theft,
No leſſe then a Traducement,
To hide your doings, and to ſilence that,
Which to the ſpire, and top of prayſes vouch'd,
Would ſeeme but modeſt: therefore I beſeech you,
In ſigne of what you are, not to reward
What you haue done, before our Armie heare me.
I haue ſome Wounds vpon me, and they ſmart
To heare themſelues remembred.
Should they not:
Well might they feſter 'gainſt Ingratitude,
And tent themſelues with death: of all the Horſes,
Whereof we haue ta'ne good, and good ſtore of all,
The Treaſure in this field atchieued, and Citie,
We render you the Tenth, to be ta'ne forth,
Before the common diſtribution,
At your onely choyſe.
I thanke you Generall:
But cannot make my heart conſent to take
A Bribe, to pay my Sword: I doe refuſe it,
And ſtand vpon my common part with thoſe,
That haue beheld the doing.
A long flouriſh. They all cry, Martius, Martius,
caſt up their Caps and Launces: Cominius
and Lartius ſt and bare.
May theſe ſame Inſtruments, which you prophane,
Neuer ſound more: when Drums and Trumpets ſhall
I'th'field proue flatterers, let Courts and Cities be
Made all of falſe-fac'd ſoothing:
When Steele growes ſoft, as the Paraſites Silke,
Let him be made an Ouerture for th'Warres:
No more I ſay, for that I haue not waſh'd
My Noſe that bled, or foyl'd ſome debile Wretch,
Which without note, here's many elſe haue done,
You ſhoot me forth in acclamations hyperbolicall,
As if I lou'd my little ſhould be dieted
In prayſes, ſawc'ſt with Lyes.
Too modeſt are you:
More cruell to your good report, then gratefull
To vs, that giue you truly: by your patience,
If'gainſt your ſelfe you be incens'd, wee'le put you
(Like one that meanes his proper harme) in Manacles,
Then reaſon ſafely with you: Therefore be it knowne,
As to vs, to all the World, That Caius Martius
Weares this Warres Garland: in token of the which,
My Noble Steed, knowne to the Campe, I giue him,
With all his trim belonging; and from this time,
For what he did before Corioles, call him,
With all th'applauſe and Clamor of the Hoaſt,
Marcus Caius Coriolanus. Beare th'addition Nobly euer?
Flouriſh. Trumpets ſound, and Drums.
Marcus Caius Coriolanus.
I will goe waſh:
And when my Face is faire, you ſhall perceiue
Whether I bluſh, or no: howbeit, I thanke you,
I meane to ſtride your Steed, and at all times
To vnder-creſt your good Addition,
To th'faireneſſe of my power.
So, to our Tent:
Where ere we doe repoſe vs, we will write
To Rome of our ſucceſſe: you Titus Lartius
Muſt to Corioles backe, ſend vs to Rome
The beſt, with whom we may articulate,
For their owne good, and ours.
I ſhall, my Lord.
The Gods begin to mocke me:
I that now refus'd moſt Princely gifts,
Am bound to begge of my Lord Generall.
Tak't,'tis yours: what is't?
I ſometime lay here in Corioles,
At a poore mans houſe: he vs'd me kindly,
He cry'd to me: I ſaw him Priſoner:
But then Auffidius was within my view,
And Wrath o're-whelm'd my pittie: I requeſt you
To giue my poore Hoſt freedome.
Oh well begg'd:
Were he the Butcher of my Sonne, he ſhould
Be free, as is the Winde: deliuer him, Titus.
Martius, his Name.
By Iupiter forgot:
I am wearie, yea, my memorie is tyr'd:
Haue we no Wine here?
Goe we to our Tent:
The bloud vpon your Viſage dryes, 'tis time
It ſhould be lookt too: come. Exeunt.