And, gladly quak'd, hear more; where the dull Tribunes,
That with the fufty Plebeians, hate thine honours,
Shall fay, against their hearts,-"We thank the Gods,
"Our Rome hath fuch a Soldier!".

Yet cam'ft thou to a morfel of this feast,
Having fully din'd before.

Enter Titus Lartius with his Power, from the
purfuit.

Lart. O General,

Here is the fteed, we the caparifon :

Hadft thou beheld

Mar. Pray now, no more: my Mother,
Who has a charter to extol her blood,
When the does praise me, grieves me:

I have done as you have done; that's, what I can;
Induc'd, as you have been; that's for my Country;
He, that has but effected his good will,

Hath overta'en mine act.

Com. You fhall not be

The Grave of your deferving: Rome must know
The value of her own: 'twere a concealment
Worfe than a theft, no less than a traducement,
To hide your Doings; and to filence that,
Which, to the fpire and top of praises vouch'd,
Would feem but modeft: therefore, I befeech
In fign of what you are, not to reward

you,

What you have done, before our army hear me.

Mar. I have fome wounds upon me, and they fmart To hear themselves remembred.

Com. Should they not,

Well might they fefter 'gainft ingratitude,

And tent themselves with death: Of all the horses,
Whereof we have ta'en good, and good store, of all
The treasure in the field atchiev'd, and city,

We render you the tenth, to be ta’en forth,
Before the common diftribution, at

Your only choice.

Mar. I thank you, General:

But

But cannot make my heart consent to take
A bribe, to pay my fword: I do refuse it,
And ftand upon my common part with those
That have beheld the doing.

[A long flourish. They all cry, Marcius, Marcius ! caft up their caps and lances: Cominius and Lartius ftand bare.

Mar. May these fame inftruments, which you profane, (8)

Never found more! when drums and trumpets fhall
I'th' field prove flatterers, let camps, as cities,
Be made of falfe-fac'd foothing! When fteel grows
Soft, as the parafite's filk, let Hymns be made
An overture for th' wars! No more, I fay;

For that I have not wash'd my Nose that bled,
Or foil'd fome debile wretch, which, without note
Here's many else have done; you fhout me forth
In acclamations hyperbolical;

As if I lov'd, my little should be dieted
In praises fauc'd 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 your felf you be incens'd, we'll put you
(Like one that means his proper harm) in manacles;
Then reason fafely with you: therefore, be it known,
As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius
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,

(8) May these fame inftruments, which you profane,

Never found more : &c.]

Several fubfequent Verfes in this truly fine Paffage are difmounted, unnumerous and imperfect: And the Senfe, 'tis plain, has been no less maim'd than the Numbers. To remedy This Part, I have had the Affiftance of my ingenious Friend Mr. Warburton ; and with the Benefit of his happy Conjectures, which I have inferted in the Text, the Whole, I hope, is reftor'd to that Purity, which was quite loft in the Corruptions.

For

For what he did before Corioli, call him,

With all th' applause and clamour of the Hoft,

Caius Marcius Coriolanus. Bear th' addition nobly ever. [Flourish. Trumpets found and drums.

Omnes. Caius Marcius Coriolanus!

Mar. I will go wash :

And when my face is fair, you fhall perceive
Whether I blush or no. Howbeit, I thank you.
I mean to ftride your Steed, and at all time
To undercreft your good Addition,
To th' fairness of my Power.

Com. So, to our tent :

Where, ere we do repose us, we will write
To Rome of our fuccefs: you, Titus Lartius,
Muft to Corioli back; fend us to Rome
The best, with whom we may articulate,
For their own good, and ours.
Lart. I fhall, my lord.

Mar. The Gods begin to mock me:
I, that but now refus'd moft princely gifts,
Am bound to beg of my lord General.
Com. Take't, 'tis yours: what is't?
Mar. I fometime lay here in Corioli,
At a poor man's houfe: he us'd me kindly.
He cry'd 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 Hoft Freedom.

Com. O well begg'd!

Were he the butcher of my fon, he should
Be free as is the wind: deliver him, Titus.
Lart. Marcius, his name?

Mar. By Jupiter, forgot:

I am weary; yea, my memory is tir'd:
Have we no wine here?

Com. Go we to our tent;

The blood upon your visage dries; 'tis time
It fhould be look'd to: come.

[Exeunt.

SCENE

SCENE changes to the Camp of the Volfci.

A Flourish. Cornet. Enter Tullus Aufidius bloody, with two or three foldiers.

HE town is ta'en.

Auf.

THE

Sol Twill be deliver'd back on good condition.

Auf. Condition!

I would, I were a Roman; for I cannot,
Being a Volfcian, be that I am. Condition?
What good condition can a treaty find

I'th' part that is at mercy? Five times, Marcius,
I have fought with thee, fo often haft thou beat me:
And would'st do fo, I think, fhould we encounter
As often as we eat. By th' Elements,
If e'er again I meet him beard to beard,
He's mine, or I am his: mine emulation
Hath not that honour in't, it had; for where
I thought to crush him in an equal force,

True Sword to Sword; I'll potch at him some way,
Or wrath, or craft may get him.

Sol. He's the Devil.

Auf. Bolder, tho' not fo fubtle: my valour (poifon'd, With only fuffering ftain by him) for him

Shall flie out of it felf: not fleep, nor fanctuary,
Being naked, fick, nor fane, nor Capitol,
The prayers of priests, nor times of facrifice,
Embarkments all of fury, shall lift

up

Their rotten privilege and custom 'gainst

My hate to Marcius. Where I find him, were it
At home, upon my brother's guard, even there,
Against the hofpitable Canon, would I

Wash my fierce hand in's heart. Go you to th' city;
Learn, how 'tis held; and what they are, that must
Be hoftages for Rome.

Sol. Will not you go?

Auf. I am attended at the cypress grove. I pray you, ('Tis South the city-mills) bring me word thither

How

How the world goes, that to the pace of it
I may fpur on my journey.
Sol. I fhall, Sir.

A CT II.

SCENE,

ROME.

[Exeunt.

Enter Menenius, with Sicinius and Brutus.

T

MENENIUS.

HE Augur tells me, we shall have news to night.
Bru. Good or bad?

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

Sic. Nature teaches Beafts to know their friends.
Men. Pray you, whom does the wolf love?
Sic. The lamb.

Men. Ay, to devour him, as the hungry Plebeians would the noble Marcius.

Bru. He's a lamb, indeed, that baes like a bear.

Men. He's a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two are old men, tell me one thing that I shall ask you.

Both. Well, Sir;

Men. In what enormity is Marcius poor, that you two have not in abundance?

Bru. He's poor in no one fault, but stor'd with all. Sic. Efpecially, in pride.

Bru. And topping all others in boafting.

Men. This is ftrange now; do you two know how you are cenfur'd here in the city, I mean of us o'th' right hand file, do you?

Bru. Why,- -how are we cenfur'd ?

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

Both. Well, well, Sir, well.

Men.