Act I - Act I, Scene 9

SCENE IX. The Roman camp.

[Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Flourish. Enter, at one side,
COMINIUS and Romans; at the other side, MARCIUS, with his arm
in a scarf, and other Romans.]

If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work,
Thou't not believe thy deeds: but I'll report it
Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles;
Where great patricians shall attend, and shrug,
I' the end admire; where ladies shall be frighted
And, gladly quak'd, 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.'
Yet cam'st thou to a morsel of this feast,
Having fully dined before.

[Enter TITUS LARTIUS, with his power, from the pursuit.]

O general,
Here is the steed, we the caparison:
Hadst thou beheld,--

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.

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.

I have some wounds upon me, and they smart
To hear themselves remember'd.

Should they not,
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 achiev'd and city,
We render you the tenth; to be ta'en forth
Before the common distribution at
Your only choice.

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
That have beheld the doing.

[A long flourish. They all cry 'Marcius, Marcius!', cast up their
caps and lances. COMINIUS and LARTIUS stand bare.]

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-fac'd 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,--
You shout me forth in acclamations hyperbolical;
As if I loved my little should be dieted
In praises sauc'd with lies.

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 incens'd, 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
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 the applause--and clamour of the host,
'Caius Marcius Coriolanus.'--
Bear the addition nobly ever!

[Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums]

Caius Marcius Coriolanus!

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.

So, to our tent;
Where, ere we do repose us, 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.

I shall, my lord.

The gods begin to mock me. I, that now
Refus'd most princely gifts, am bound to beg
Of my lord general.

Take't: 'tis yours.--What is't?

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'erwhelmed my pity: I request you
To give my poor host freedom.

O, well begg'd!
Were he the butcher of my son, he should
Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus.

Marcius, his name?

By Jupiter, forgot:--
I am weary; yea, my memory is tir'd.--
Have we no wine here?

Go we to our tent:
The blood upon your visage dries; 'tis time
It should be look'd to: come.