The Complete Tragedies of William Shakespeare - All 12 Books in One Edition. William Shakespeare
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What I can urge against him. Although it seems,
And so he thinks, and is no less apparent
To the vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly,
And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state,
Fights dragon-like, and does achieve as soon
As draw his sword: yet he hath left undone
That which shall break his neck or hazard mine
Whene’er we come to our account.
LIEUTENANT.
Sir, I beseech you, think you he’ll carry Rome?
AUFIDIUS.
All places yield to him ere he sits down;
And the nobility of Rome are his;
The senators and patricians love him too:
The tribunes are no soldiers; and their people
Will be as rash in the repeal as hasty
To expel him thence. I think he’ll be to Rome
As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it
By sovereignty of nature. First he was
A noble servant to them; but he could not
Carry his honours even: whether ‘twas pride,
Which out of daily fortune ever taints
The happy man; whether defect of judgment,
To fail in the disposing of those chances
Which he was lord of; or whether nature,
Not to be other than one thing, not moving
From the casque to the cushion, but commanding peace
Even with the same austerity and garb
As he controll’d the war; but one of these,—
As he hath spices of them all, not all,
For I dare so far free him,—made him fear’d,
So hated, and so banish’d: but he has a merit
To choke it in the utterance. So our virtues
Lie in the interpretation of the time:
And power, unto itself most commendable,
Hath not a tomb so evident as a cheer
To extol what it hath done.
One fire drives out one fire; one nail, one nail;
Rights by rights falter, strengths by strengths do fail.
Come, let’s away. When, Caius, Rome is thine,
Thou art poor’st of all; then shortly art thou mine.
[Exeunt.]
ACT V.
SCENE I. Rome. A public place
[Enter MENENIUS, COMINIUS, SICINIUS and BRUTUS, and others.]
MENENIUS.
No, I’ll not go: you hear what he hath said
Which was sometime his general; who lov’d him
In a most dear particular. He call’d me father:
But what o’ that? Go, you that banish’d him;
A mile before his tent fall down, and knee
The way into his mercy: nay, if he coy’d
To hear Cominius speak, I’ll keep at home.
COMINIUS.
He would not seem to know me.
MENENIUS.
Do you hear?
COMINIUS.
Yet one time he did call me by my name:
I urged our old acquaintance, and the drops
That we have bled together. Coriolanus
He would not answer to: forbad all names;
He was a kind of nothing, titleless,
Till he had forg’d himself a name i’ the fire
Of burning Rome.
MENENIUS.
Why, so!—you have made good work!
A pair of tribunes that have rack’d for Rome,
To make coals cheap,—a noble memory!
COMINIUS.
I minded him how royal ‘twas to pardon
When it was less expected: he replied,
It was a bare petition of a state
To one whom they had punish’d.
MENENIUS.
Very well:
Could he say less?
COMINIUS.
I offer’d to awaken his regard
For’s private friends: his answer to me was,
He could not stay to pick them in a pile
Of noisome musty chaff: he said ‘twas folly,
For one poor grain or two, to leave unburnt
And still to nose the offence.
MENENIUS.
For one poor grain
Or two! I am one of those; his mother, wife,
His child, and this brave fellow too-we are the grains:
You are the musty chaff; and you are smelt
Above the moon: we must be burnt for you.
SICINIUS.
Nay, pray be patient: if you refuse your aid
In this so never-needed help, yet do not
Upbraid’s with our distress. But, sure, if you
Would be your country’s pleader, your good tongue,
More than the instant army we can make,
Might stop our countryman.
MENENIUS.
No; I’ll not meddle.
SICINIUS.
Pray you, go to him.
MENENIUS.
What should I do?
BRUTUS.
Only make trial what your love can do
For Rome, towards Marcius.
MENENIUS.
Well, and say that Marcius
Return me, as Cominius is return’d,
Unheard; what then?
But as a discontented friend, grief-shot
With his unkindness? Say’t be so?
SICINIUS.
Yet your goodwill
Must have that thanks from Rome, after the measure
As you intended well.
MENENIUS.
I’ll undertake’t;
I think he’ll hear me. Yet to bite his lip
And hum at good Cominius much unhearts me.
He was not taken well: he had not din’d;
The veins unfill’d, our blood is cold, and then
We pout upon the morning, are unapt
To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff’d
These pipes and these conveyances of our blood
With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls
Than in