Well, sir, what answer made the belly?

      Sir, I shall tell you. – With a kind of smile,

      Which ne'er came from the lungs, but even thus, —

      For, look you, I may make the belly smile

      As well as speak, – it tauntingly replied

      To the discontented members, the mutinous parts

      That envied his receipt; even so most fitly

      As you malign our senators for that

      They are not such as you.

      Your belly's answer? What!

      The kingly crowned head, the vigilant eye,

      The counsellor heart, the arm our soldier,

      Our steed the leg, the tongue our trumpeter,

      With other muniments and petty helps

      Is this our fabric, if that they, —

      What then? —

      'Fore me, this fellow speaks! – what then? what then?

      Should by the cormorant belly be restrain'd,

      Who is the sink o' the body, —

      Well, what then?

      The former agents, if they did complain,

      What could the belly answer?

      I will tell you;

      If you'll bestow a small, – of what you have little, —

      Patience awhile, you'll hear the belly's answer.

      You are long about it.

      Note me this, good friend;

      Your most grave belly was deliberate,

      Not rash like his accusers, and thus answer'd:

      'True is it, my incorporate friends,' quoth he,

      'That I receive the general food at first

      Which you do live upon; and fit it is,

      Because I am the storehouse and the shop

      Of the whole body: but, if you do remember,

      I send it through the rivers of your blood,

      Even to the court, the heart, – to the seat o' the brain;

      And, through the cranks and offices of man,

      The strongest nerves and small inferior veins

      From me receive that natural competency

      Whereby they live: and though that all at once

      You, my good friends,' – this says the belly, – mark me, —

      Ay, sir; well, well.

      'Though all at once cannot

      See what I do deliver out to each,

      Yet I can make my audit up, that all

      From me do back receive the flour of all,

      And leave me but the bran.' What say you to't?

      It was an answer: how apply you this?

      The senators of Rome are this good belly,

      And you the mutinous members; for, examine

      Their counsels and their cares; digest things rightly

      Touching the weal o' the common; you shall find

      No public benefit which you receive

      But it proceeds or comes from them to you,

      And no way from yourselves. – What do you think,

      You, the great toe of this assembly?

      I the great toe? why the great toe?

      For that, being one o' the lowest, basest, poorest,

      Of this most wise rebellion, thou go'st foremost:

      Thou rascal, that art worst in blood to run,

      Lead'st first to win some vantage. —

      But make you ready your stiff bats and clubs:

      Rome and her rats are at the point of battle;

      The one side must have bale. —

      Hail, noble Marcius!

      Thanks. – What's the matter, you dissentious rogues

      That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion,

      Make yourselves scabs?

      We have ever your good word.

      He that will give good words to thee will flatter

      Beneath abhorring. – What would you have, you curs,

      That like nor peace nor war? The one affrights you,

      The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you,

      Where he should find you lions, finds you hares;

      Where foxes, geese: you are no surer, no,

      Than is the coal of fire upon the ic,

      Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is

      To make him worthy whose offence subdues him,

      And curse that justice did it. Who deserves greatness

      Deserves your hate; and your affections are

      A sick man's appetite, who desires most that

      Which would increase his evil. He that depends

      Upon your favours swims with fins of lead,

      And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust ye!

      With every minute you do change a mind;

      And call him noble that was now your hate,

      Him vile that was your garland. What's the matter,

      That in these several places of the city

      You cry against the noble senate, who,

      Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else

      Would feed on one another? – What's their seeking?

      For corn at their own rates; whereof they say

      The city is well stor'd.

      Hang 'em! They say!

      They'll sit by th' fire and presume to know

      What's done i' the Capitol; who's like to rise,

      Who thrives and who declines; side