Act II, Scene i:
Rome. A public place

[Enter MENENIUS, SICINIUS, and BRUTUS.]

MENENIUS:

The augurer tells me we shall have news tonight.

BRUTUS:

Good or bad?

MENENIUS:

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

Marcius.

SICINIUS:

Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.

MENENIUS:

Pray you, who does the wolf love?

SICINIUS:

The lamb.

MENENIUS:

Ay, to devour him, as the hungry plebeians would the noble

Marcius.

BRUTUS:

He's a lamb indeed, that baas like a bear.

MENENIUS:

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 TRIBUNES:

Well, sir.

MENENIUS:

In what enormity is Marcius poor in, that you two have not

in abundance?

BRUTUS:

He's poor in no one fault, but stored with all.

SICINIUS:

Especially in pride.

BRUTUS:

And topping all others in boasting.

MENENIUS:

This is strange now: do you two know how you are censured here in

the city, I mean of us o' the right-hand file? Do you?

BOTH TRIBUNES:

Why, how are we censured?

MENENIUS:

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

BOTH TRIBUNES:

Well, well, sir, well.

MENENIUS:

Why, 'tis no great matter; for a very little thief of occasion

will rob you of a great deal of patience: give your dispositions

the reins, and be angry at your pleasures; at the least, if you

take it as a pleasure to you in being so. You blame Marcius for

being proud?

BRUTUS:

We do it not alone, sir.

MENENIUS:

I know you can do very little alone; for your helps are many, or

else your actions would grow wondrous single: your abilities are

too infant-like for doing much alone. You talk of pride: O that

you could turn your eyes toward the napes of your necks, and make

but an interior survey of your good selves! O that you could!

BOTH TRIBUNES:

What then, sir?

MENENIUS:

Why, then you should discover a brace of unmeriting, proud,

violent, testy magistrates,—alias fools,—as any in Rome.

SICINIUS:

Menenius, you are known well enough too.

MENENIUS:

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 something imperfect in favouring the first complaint, hasty

and tinder-like upon too trivial motion; one that converses more

with the buttock of the night than with the forehead of the

morning. What I think I utter, and spend my malice in my breath.

Meeting two such wealsmen as you are,—I cannot call you

Lycurguses,—if the drink you give me touch my palate adversely,

I make a crooked face at it. I cannot say your worships have

delivered the matter well when I find the ass in compound with

the major part of your syllables; and though I must be content to

bear with those that say you are reverend grave men, yet they lie

deadly that tell you have good faces. If you see this in the map

of my microcosm, follows it that I am known well enough too? What

harm can your bisson conspectuities glean out of this character,

if I be known well enough too?

BRUTUS:

Come, sir, come, we know you well enough.

MENENIUS:

You know neither me, yourselves, nor anything. You are ambitious

for poor knaves' caps and legs; you wear out a good wholesome

forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a

fosset-seller, and then rejourn the controversy of threepence

to a second day of audience.—When you are hearing a matter

between party and party, if you chance to be pinched with the

colic, you make faces like mummers, set up the bloody flag

against all patience, and, in roaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss

the controversy bleeding, the more entangled by your hearing: all

the peace you make in their cause is calling both the parties

knaves. You are a pair of strange ones.

BRUTUS:

Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter giber

for the table than a necessary bencher in the Capitol.

MENENIUS:

Our very priests must become mockers if they shall encounter such

ridiculous subjects as you are. When you speak best unto the

purpose, it is not worth the wagging of your beards; and your

beards deserve not so honourable a grave as to stuff a botcher's

cushion or to be entombed in an ass's pack-saddle. Yet you must

be saying, Marcius is proud; who, in a cheap estimation, is worth

all your predecessors since Deucalion; though peradventure some

of the best of 'em were hereditary hangmen. God-den to your

worships: more of your conversation would infect my brain, being

the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians: I will be bold to take my

leave of you.

[BRUTUS and SICINIUS retire.]

[Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, VALERIA, &c.]

How now, my as fair as noble ladies,—and the moon, were she

earthly, no nobler,—whither do you follow your eyes so fast?

VOLUMNIA:

Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius approaches; for the love of

Juno, let's go.

MENENIUS:

Ha! Marcius coming home!

VOLUMNIA:

Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous approbation.

MENENIUS:

Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee.—Hoo! Marcius coming

home!

VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA.

Nay, 'tis true.

VOLUMNIA:

Look, here's a letter from him: the state hath another,

his wife another; and I think there's one at home for you.

MENENIUS:

I will make my very house reel to-night.—A letter for me?

VIRGILIA:

Yes, certain, there's a letter for you; I saw it.

MENENIUS:

A letter for me! It gives me an estate of seven years'

health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician: the

most sovereign prescription in Galen is but empiricutic, and, to

this preservative, of no better report than a horse-drench. Is he

not wounded? he was wont to come home wounded.

VIRGILIA:

O, no, no, no.

VOLUMNIA:

O, he is wounded, I thank the gods for't.

MENENIUS:

So do I too, if it be not too much.—Brings a victory in

his pocket?—The wounds become him.

VOLUMNIA:

On's brows: Menenius, he comes the third time home with the oaken

garland.

MENENIUS:

Has he disciplined Aufidius soundly?

VOLUMNIA:

Titus Lartius writes,—they fought together, but Aufidius

got off.

MENENIUS:

And 'twas time for him too, I'll warrant him that: an he

had stayed by him, I would not have been so fidiused for all the

chests in Corioli and the gold that's in them. Is the Senate

possessed of this?

VOLUMNIA:

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 outdone his former deeds doubly.

VALERIA:

In troth, there's wondrous things spoke of him.

MENENIUS:

Wondrous! ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing.

VIRGILIA:

The gods grant them true!

VOLUMNIA:

True! pow, wow.

MENENIUS:

True! I'll be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded?—[To theTRIBUNES, who come forward.]God save your good worships! Marcius

is coming home; he has more cause to be proud.—Where is he

wounded?

VOLUMNIA:

I' the shoulder and i' the left arm; there will be large

cicatrices to show the people when he shall stand for his place.

He received in the repulse of Tarquin seven hurts i' the body.

MENENIUS:

One i' the neck and two i' the thigh,—there's nine that I

know.

VOLUMNIA:

He had, before this last expedition, twenty-five wounds upon him.

MENENIUS:

Now it's twenty-seven: every gash was an enemy's grave.

[A shout and flourish.]

Hark! the trumpets.

VOLUMNIA:

These are the ushers of Marcius: before him

He carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears;

Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie;

Which, being advanc'd, declines, and then men die.

[A sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter COMINIUS and TITUS LARTIUS;between them, CORIOLANUS, crowned with an oaken garland; withCAPTAINS and Soldiers and a HERALD.]

HERALD:

Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight

Within Corioli gates: where he hath won,

With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these

In honour follows Coriolanus:—

Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

[Flourish.]

ALL:

Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

CORIOLANUS:

No more of this, it does offend my heart;

Pray now, no more.

COMINIUS:

Look, sir, your mother!

CORIOLANUS:

O,

You have, I know, petition'd all the gods

For my prosperity!

[Kneels.]

VOLUMNIA:

Nay, my good soldier, up;

My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and

By deed-achieving honour newly nam'd,—

What is it?—Coriolanus must I call thee?

But, O, thy wife!

CORIOLANUS:

My gracious silence, hail!

Wouldst thou have laugh'd had I come coffin'd home,

That weep'st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear,

Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear,

And mothers that lack sons.

MENENIUS:

Now the gods crown thee!

CORIOLANUS:

And live you yet?[To VALERIA]—O my sweet lady, pardon.

VOLUMNIA:

I know not where to turn.—O, welcome home;—and welcome,

general;—and you are welcome all.

MENENIUS:

A hundred thousand welcomes.—I could weep

And I could laugh; I am light and heavy.—Welcome:

A curse begin at very root on's heart

That is not glad to see thee!—You are three

That Rome should dote on: yet, by the faith of men,

We have some old crab trees here at home that will not

Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors.

We call a nettle but a nettle; and

The faults of fools but folly.

COMINIUS:

Ever right.

CORIOLANUS:

Menenius ever, ever.

HERALD:

Give way there, and go on!

CORIOLANUS:

[To his wife and mother.] Your hand, and yours:

Ere in our own house I do shade my head,

The good patricians must be visited;

From whom I have receiv'd not only greetings,

But with them change of honours.

VOLUMNIA:

I have lived

To see inherited my very wishes,

And the buildings of my fancy; only

There's one thing wanting, which I doubt not but

Our Rome will cast upon thee.

CORIOLANUS:

Know, good mother,

I had rather be their servant in my way

Than sway with them in theirs.

COMINIUS:

On, to the Capitol.

[Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before. The tribunesremain.]

BRUTUS:

All tongues speak of him and the bleared sights

Are spectacled to see him: your prattling nurse

Into a rapture lets her baby cry

While she chats him: the kitchen malkin pins

Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck,

Clamb'ring the walls to eye him: stalls, bulks, windows,

Are smother'd up, leads fill'd and ridges hors'd

With variable complexions; all agreeing

In earnestness to see him: seld-shown flamens

Do press among the popular throngs, and puff

To win a vulgar station: our veil'd dames

Commit the war of white and damask, in

Their nicely gawded cheeks, to the wanton spoil

Of Phoebus' burning kisses; such a pother,

As if that whatsoever god who leads him

Were slily crept into his human powers,

And gave him graceful posture.

SICINIUS:

On the sudden

I warrant him consul.

BRUTUS:

Then our office may

During his power go sleep.

SICINIUS:

He cannot temp'rately transport his honours

From where he should begin and end; but will

Lose those he hath won.

BRUTUS:

In that there's comfort.

SICINIUS:

Doubt not the commoners, for whom we stand,

But they, upon their ancient malice will forget,

With the least cause these his new honours; which

That he will give them make as little question

As he is proud to do't.

BRUTUS:

I heard him swear,

Were he to stand for consul, never would he

Appear i' the market-place, nor on him put

The napless vesture of humility;

Nor, showing, as the manner is, his wounds

To the people, beg their stinking breaths.

SICINIUS:

'Tis right.

BRUTUS:

It was his word: O, he would miss it rather

Than carry it but by the suit of the gentry to him,

And the desire of the nobles.

SICINIUS:

I wish no better

Than have him hold that purpose, and to put it

In execution.

BRUTUS:

'Tis most like he will.

SICINIUS:

It shall be to him then, as our good wills,

A sure destruction.

BRUTUS:

So it must fall out

To him or our authorities. For an end,

We must suggest the people in what hatred

He still hath held them; that to's power he would

Have made them mules, silenc'd their pleaders, and

Dispropertied their freedoms; holding them,

In human action and capacity,

Of no more soul nor fitness for the world

Than camels in their war; who have their provand

Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows

For sinking under them.

SICINIUS:

This, as you say, suggested

At some time when his soaring insolence

Shall touch the people,—which time shall not want,

If it be put upon't; and that's as easy

As to set dogs on sheep,—will be his fire

To kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze

Shall darken him for ever.

[Enter A MESSENGER.]

BRUTUS:

What's the matter?

MESSENGER:

You are sent for to the Capitol. 'Tis thought

That Marcius shall be consul:

I have seen the dumb men throng to see him, and

The blind to hear him speak: matrons flung gloves,

Ladies and maids their scarfs and handkerchers,

Upon him as he pass'd; the nobles bended

As to Jove's statue; and the commons made

A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts:

I never saw the like.

BRUTUS:

Let's to the Capitol;

And carry with us ears and eyes for the time,

But hearts for the event.

SICINIUS:

Have with you.

[Exeunt.]