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.

COMINIUS

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 vouched,

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.

MARTIUS

I have some wounds upon me, and they smart

To hear themselves remembered.

COMINIUS

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 achieved and city,

We render you the tenth, to be ta’en forth

Before the common distribution

At your only choice.

MARTIUS

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 upheld the doing.

A long flourish. They all cry ‘Martius, Martius!’, casting 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’th’ 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

An overture for th’ wars. No more, I say.

For that I have not washed my nose that bled,

Or foiled 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 sauced with lies.

COMINIUS

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 Martius

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 Corioles, call him,

With all th’applause and clamour of the host,

Martius Caius Coriolanus. Bear th’addition

Nobly ever!

Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums

ALL Martius Caius Coriolanus!

CORIOLANUS (to Cominius) 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 th’ fairness of my power.

COMINIUS

So, to our tent,

Where, ere we do repose us, we will write

To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius,

Must to Corioles back. Send us to Rome

The best, with whom we may articulate

For their own good and ours.

LARTIUS

I shall, my lord.

CORIOLANUS

The gods begin to mock me. I, that now

Refused most princely gifts, am bound to beg

Of my lord general.

COMINIUS

Take‘t, ’tis yours. What is’t?

CORIOLANUS

I sometime lay here in Corioles,

And 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.

COMINIUS

O, well begged!

Were he the butcher of my son he should

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

LARTIUS

Martius, his name?

CORIOLANUS By Jupiter, forgot!

I am weary, yea, my memory is tired.

Have we no wine here?

COMINIUS

Go we to our tent.

The blood upon your visage dries; ’tis time

It should be looked to. Come.

⌈A flourish of cornetts.⌉ Exeunt

1.11 Enter Aufidius, bloody, with two or three Soldiers AUFIDIUS The town is ta’en.

A SOLDIER

’Twill be delivered back on good condition.

AUFIDIUS Condition?

I would I were a Roman, for I cannot,

Being a Volsce, be that I am. Condition?

What good condition can a treaty find

I‘th’ part that is at mercy? Five times, Martius,

I have fought with thee; so often hast thou beat me,

And wouldst do so, I think, should 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.

A SOLDIER

He’s the devil.

AUFIDIUS

Bolder, though not so subtle. My valour, poisoned

With only suff‘ring stain by him, for him

Shall fly out of itself. Nor sleep nor sanctuary,