William Shakespeare, Coriolanus
W. G. Clark, W. Aldis Wright, Ed.

SCENE IX

Com.
If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work,

Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles,

Where great patricians shall attend and shrug,

I' the end admire, where ladies shall be frighted,

And, glady 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.' (10)

Yet camest thou to a morsel of this feast,

Having fully dined before. Enter TITUS LARTIUS, with his power, from the pursuit.

Lart.
O general,

Here is the steed, we the caparison:

Hadst thou beheld—

Mar.
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.

Com.
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 vouch'd

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.

Mar.
I have some wounds upon me, and they smart

To hear themselves remember'd.

Com.
Should they not, (30)

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.

Mar.
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 (40)

That have beheld the doing. A long flourish. They all cry 'Marcius! Marcius!' cast up their caps and lances: Cominius and Lartius stand bare.

Mar.
May these same instruments, which you profane,

Never sound more! when drums and trumpets shall

I' the field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be

Made all of false-faced soothing!

When steel grows soft as the parasite's silk,

Let him be made a coverture for the wars!

No more, I say! For that I have not wash'd

My nose that bled, or foil'd some debile wretch,—

Which, without note, here's many else have done,— (50)

You shout me forth

In acclamations hyperbolical;

As if I loved my little should be dieted

In praises sauced with lies.

Com.
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 Marcius (60)

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 Corioli, call him,

With all applause and clamour of the host,

CAIUS MARCIUS CORIOLANUS! Bear

The addition nobly ever! Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums.

All.

Caius Marcius Coriolanus!

Cor.
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 the fairness of my power.

Com.
So, to our tent;

Where, ere we do repose, we will write

To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius,

Must to Corioli back: send us to Rome

The best, with whom we may articulate,

For their own good and ours.

Lart.
I shall, my lord.

Cor.
The gods begin to mock me. I, that now

Refused most princely gifts, am bound to beg (81)

Of my lord general.

Com.
Take't; 'tis yours. What is't?

Cor.
I sometime lay here in Corioli

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'erwhelm'd my pity: I request you

To give my poor host freedom.

Com.
O, well begg'd!

Were he the butcher of my son, he should

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

Lart.
Marcius, his name?

Cor.
By Jupiter! forgot. (91)

I am weary; yea, my memory is tired.

Have we no wine here?

Com.
Go we to our tent:

The blood upon your visage dries; 'tis time

It should be look'd to: come. Exeunt.