Com. Take't, 'tis yours; What is't?
Mar. I fometime lay here in Coriolus,
At a poor Man's Houfe: He us'd me kindly.
He cry'd to me: I faw him Prisoner:
But then Aufidius was in my view,

And Wrath'er-whelm'd my Pity: I request you
To give my poor Hoft 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. Martins, his Name.

Mar. By Jupiter, forgot:

I am weary; yea, my Memr'y is tir'd:

Have we no Wine here?

Com. Go we to our Tent;

The Blood upon your Vifage dries; 'tis time
It should be look'd to: Come.

[Exeunt.

A Flourish. Cornets. Enter Tullus Aufidius bloody, with

two or three Soldiers.

Auf. The Town is ta'en.

Sol. Twill be deliver'd back on good Condition.
Auf. Condition!

I would I were a Roman, for I cannot,

Being a Volfcie, be that I am.

Condition?

What good Condition can a. Treaty find

I'th' part that is a Mercy? Five times, Martius,
I have fought with thee; f often haft thou beat me:
And wo ld'ft do so, I think, should we encounter
As often as we Eat. By the 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 fome way,
Of Wrath, or Craft may get him.

Sol. He's the Devil.

Auf. Bolder, thnot fo fubtle: My Valour's poifon'd, With o ly fuffering Stain by him: For him

Shall fe out of it le f; not Sleep, nor Sanctuary,
Being Nak d, Sick, nr Fane, nor Capitol,
The Prayers of Priests, nor time of Sacrifice:

Embark.

Embarkments all of fury, fhall lift up

Their rotten Privilege, and Custom 'gainft

My hate to Martius. Where I find him, were it
At home, upon my Brother's Guard, even there
Against the Hofpitable Canon, would I

Wath my fierce Hand in's Heart. Go you to the 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 Mill) bring me word thither How the World goes, that to the pace of it

I may fpur on my Journey.

Sol. I fhall, Sir.

[Exeunt.

ACT II. SCENE I.

SCENE Rome.

Enter Menenius with Sicinius and Brutus.

Men.THE Augurer 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 Martius.

Sic. Nature teaches Beafts to know their Friends.

Men. Pray you, who does the Wolf love?

Sic. The Lamb.

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

Bru. He's a Lamb indeed, that baes like a Bear.

Men. He's Bear indeed, that lives like a Lamb.

You two are old Men, tell me one thing that I fhall ask

you.

Both. Well, Sir.

Men. In what Enormity is Martius poor in, that you two have not in abundance?

Bru. He's poor in no one Fault, but ftor'd with all.
Sic. Especially Pride.

Bru.

Bru. And topping all others in boast.

Men. This is ftrange now! Do you two know how you are cenfur'd here in the City, I mean 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. Why, 'tis no great matter; for a very little Thief of Occafion will rob you of a great deal of Patience: Give your difpofitions the Reins, and be angry at your pleasures, (at the leaft) if you take it as a pleasure to you, in being fo-you blame Martius for being proud.

Bru. We do it not alone, Sir.

Men. I know you can do very little alone, for your helps are many, or else your Actions would grow wondrous fingle; your Abilities are too Infant-like, for doing much alone. You talk of Pride-Oh, that you could turn your Eyes towards the Napes of your Necks, and make but an interior furvey of your good felves. Oh that you could!

Bru. What then, Sir?

Men. Why then you should discover a brace of as unmeriting, proud, violent, tefty Magiftrates, alias Fools, as any in Rome..

Sic. Menenius, you are known well enough too.

Men. 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 fomething imperfe& in favouring the firft Complaint, hafty and Tider-like, upon to trivial Motion: One that converfes more with the Buttock of the Night, than with the Forehead of the Morning. What I think I utter, and fpend my Malice in my Breath. Meetting two fuch Weals-men as you are (I cannot call you Lycurgaffes) if the Drink you give me touch my Palate adver Ay, I make a crooked Face at it. I can fay, your Worships have deliver'd the Matter wel', when I find the Afs in compound with the Major part of your Syllables. And tho' I must be content to bear with thofe that fay you are Reverend Grave, yet they lye deadly that tell you have good Faces; if you fee this in the Map of my Microcofm, follows it that I am known well enough too? What harm can

your

your Befom Confpectuities glean out of this Character, if I be known well enough too?

Bru. Come, Sir, come, we know you well enough.

Men. You know neither me, your felves, nor any thing; you are ambitious for poor Knaves Caps and Legs: You wear out a good wholfom Forenoon, in hearing a Caufe between an Orange-wife and a Faufet-feller, and then rejourn the Controverfie of Three Pence to a fecond Day of Audience. When you are hearing a Matter between a Party and Party, if you chance to be pinch'd with the Cholick, you make Faces like Mummers, fet up the bloody Flag against all Patience and in roaring for a Chamberpot, difmifs the Controverfie Bleeding, the more intangled by your hearing: All the Peace you make in their Caufe, is calling both the Parties Knaves. You are a pair of strange Ones.

Bru. Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter Gyber for the Table, than a neceffary Bencher in the Capitol.

Men. Our very Priefts muft become Mockers, if they fhall encounter fuch ridiculous Subjects as you are; when you speak beft unto the Purpose, it is not worth the wagging of your Beards, and your Beards deferve not fo honourable a Grave, as to ftuff a Botcher's Cushion, or to be intom'd in an Affes Pack-faddle. Yet you must be laying, Martius is proud; who in a cheap Eftimation, is worth all your Predeceffors fince Deucalion, though peradventure fome of the beft of 'em were hereditary Hangmen. Good-e'en to your Worfhips; more of your Converfation would infect my Brain, being the Herdsmen of the beaftly Plebeians. I will be bold to take my leave of you.

[Exeunt Brutus and Sicinius.

Enter Volumnia, Virgilia and Valeria. How now (my as fair as noble) Ladies, and the Moon were The Earthly, no Nobler; whither do you follow your Eyes fo faft?

Vol. Honourable Menenius, my Boy Martius approaches; for the love of Juno let's go.

Men. Ha! Martius coming home?

Vol. Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most p.ofperous Approbation.

Men.

Men. Take my Cap, Jupiter, and I thank theeMartius coming home?

Both. Nay, 'tis true.

-hoo,

Vol. Look, here's a Letter from him, the State hath another, his Wife another, and, I think, there's one at home

for you.

Men. I will make my very House reel to Night:

A Letter for me?

Vir. Yes, certain, there's a Letter for you, I faw't.

Ment. A Letter for me? it gives me an Estate of seven Years health; in which time I will make a Lip at the Phyfician: The moft Sovereign Prefcription in Galen is but Emperitick, and to this Prefervative, of no better report than a Horfe-drench. Is he not wounded? he was wont to come home wounded?

Vir. Oh no, no, no.

Vol. Oh, he is wounded, I thank the Gods for't.

Men. So do I too, if he be not too much; brings a Vi&ory in his Pocket? the Wounds become him.

Vol. On's Brows; Menenius, he comes the third time home with the Oaken Garland.

Men. Has he disciplin'd Aufidius fourdly?

Vol. Titus Lartins writes, they fought together, but Aufidius got off.

Men. And 'twas time for him too, I'll warrant him that; and he had ftaid by him, I would not have been so fidd oufed for all the Chests in Coriolus, and the Gold that's in them. Is the Senate possest of this?

Vol. 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 out-done his former Deeds doubly.

Val. In troth, there's wondrous things fpoke of him. Men. Wondrous! Ay, I warrant you, and not without his true Purchafing.

Vir. The Gods grant them true.

Vol. True? pow waw.

Men. True? I'll be fworn they are true, wounded, God fave your good Worships? ming home; he has more cause to be proud: wounded?

where is he Martius is coWhere is he