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ROMAN.

       A murrain on’t! I took this for silver.

       [Alarum continues still afar off.]

       [Enter MARCIUS and TITUS LARTIUS with a trumpet.]

       MARCIUS.

       See here these movers that do prize their hours

       At a crack’d drachma! Cushions, leaden spoons,

       Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would

       Bury with those that wore them, these base slaves,

       Ere yet the fight be done, pack up:—down with them!—

       And hark, what noise the general makes!—To him!—

       There is the man of my soul’s hate, Aufidius,

       Piercing our Romans; then, valiant Titus, take

       Convenient numbers to make good the city;

       Whilst I, with those that have the spirit, will haste

       To help Cominius.

       LARTIUS.

       Worthy sir, thou bleed’st;

       Thy exercise hath been too violent

       For a second course of fight.

       MARCIUS.

       Sir, praise me not;

       My work hath yet not warm’d me: fare you well;

       The blood I drop is rather physical

       Than dangerous to me: to Aufidius thus

       I will appear, and fight.

       LARTIUS.

       Now the fair goddess, Fortune,

       Fall deep in love with thee; and her great charms

       Misguide thy opposers’ swords! Bold gentleman,

       Prosperity be thy page!

       MARCIUS.

       Thy friend no less

       Than those she placeth highest!—So farewell.

       LARTIUS.

       Thou worthiest Marcius!—

       [Exit MARCIUS.]

       Go, sound thy trumpet in the marketplace;

       Call thither all the officers o’ the town,

       Where they shall know our mind: away!

       [Exeunt.]

       SCENE VI. Near the camp of COMINIUS.

       [Enter COMINIUS and Foreces, retreating.]

       COMINIUS.

       Breathe you, my friends: well fought; we are come off

       Like Romans, neither foolish in our stands

       Nor cowardly in retire: believe me, sirs,

       We shall be charg’d again. Whiles we have struck,

       By interims and conveying gusts we have heard

       The charges of our friends. The Roman gods,

       Lead their successes as we wish our own,

       That both our powers, with smiling fronts encountering,

       May give you thankful sacrifice!—

       [Enter A MESSENGER.]

       Thy news?

       MESSENGER.

       The citizens of Corioli have issued,

       And given to Lartius and to Marcius battle:

       I saw our party to their trenches driven,

       And then I came away.

       COMINIUS.

       Though thou speak’st truth,

       Methinks thou speak’st not well. How long is’t since?

       MESSENGER.

       Above an hour, my lord.

       COMINIUS.

       ‘Tis not a mile; briefly we heard their drums:

       How couldst thou in a mile confound an hour,

       And bring thy news so late?

       MESSENGER.

       Spies of the Volsces

       Held me in chase, that I was forc’d to wheel

       Three or four miles about; else had I, sir,

       Half an hour since brought my report.

       COMINIUS.

       Who’s yonder,

       That does appear as he were flay’d? O gods!

       He has the stamp of Marcius; and I have

       Before-time seen him thus.

       MARCIUS.

       [Within.] Come I too late?

       COMINIUS.

       The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabor

       More than I know the sound of Marcius’ tongue

       From every meaner man.

       [Enter MARCIUS.]

       MARCIUS.

       Come I too late?

       COMINIUS.

       Ay, if you come not in the blood of others,

       But mantled in your own.

       MARCIUS.

       O! let me clip ye

       In arms as sound as when I woo’d; in heart

       As merry as when our nuptial day was done,

       And tapers burn’d to bedward.

       COMINIUS.

       Flower of warriors,

       How is’t with Titus Lartius?

       MARCIUS.

       As with a man busied about decrees:

       Condemning some to death and some to exile;

       Ransoming him or pitying, threat’ning the other;

       Holding Corioli in the name of Rome,

       Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash,

       To let him slip at will.

       COMINIUS.

       Where is that slave

       Which told me they had beat you to your trenches?

       Where’s he? call him hither.

       MARCIUS.

       Let him alone;

       He did inform the truth: but for our gentlemen,

       The common file,—a plague!—tribunes for them!—

       The mouse ne’er shunned the cat as they did budge

       From rascals worse than they.

       COMINIUS.

       But how prevail’d you?

       MARCIUS.

       Will the time serve to tell? I do not think.

       Where is the enemy? are you lords o’ the field?

       If not, why cease you till you are so?

       COMINIUS.

       Marcius,

       We have at disadvantage fought, and did

       Retire, to win our purpose.

       MARCIUS.

       How lies their battle? know you on which side

       They have placed their men of trust?

       COMINIUS.

       As I guess, Marcius,

       Their bands in the vaward are the Antiates,

       Of their best trust; o’er them Aufidius,

       Their very heart

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