Before Corioli. | |
| |
Enter, with drum and colours, MARCIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, Officers, and Soldiers. To them a Messenger. | |
| Mar. Yonder comes news: a wager they have met. | |
| Lart. My horse to yours, no. | 4 |
| Mar. ’Tis done. | |
| Lart. Agreed. | |
| Mar. Say, has our general met the enemy? | |
| Mess. They lie in view, but have not spoke as yet. | 8 |
| Lart. So the good horse is mine. | |
| Mar. I’ll buy him of you. | |
| Lart. No, I’ll nor sell nor give him; lend you him I will | |
| For half a hundred years. Summon the town. | 12 |
| Mar. How far off lie these armies? | |
| Mess. Within this mile and half. | |
| Mar. Then shall we hear their ’larum, and they ours. | |
| Now, Mars, I prithee, make us quick in work, | 16 |
| That we with smoking swords may march from hence, | |
| To help our fielded friends! Come, blow thy blast. | |
| |
A Parley sounded. Enter, on the Walls, two Senators, and Others. | |
| Tullus Aufidius, is he within your walls? | 20 |
| First Sen. No, nor a man that fears you less than he, | |
| That’s lesser than a little. Hark, our drums [Drums afar off. | |
| Are bringing forth our youth: we’ll break our walls, | |
| Rather than they shall pound us up: our gates. | 24 |
| Which yet seem shut, we have but pinn’d with rushes; | |
| They’ll open of themselves. Hark you, far off! [Alarum afar off. | |
| There is Aufidius: list, what work he makes | |
| Amongst your cloven army. | 28 |
| Mar. O! they are at it! | |
| Lart. Their noise be our instruction. Ladders, ho! | |
| The Volsces enter, and pass over the stage. | |
| Mar. They fear us not, but issue forth their city. | 32 |
| Now put your shields before your hearts, and fight | |
| With hearts more proof than shields. Advance, brave Titus: | |
| They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts, | |
| Which makes me sweat with wrath. Come on, my fellows: | 36 |
| He that retires, I’ll take him for a Volsce, | |
| And he shall feel mine edge. | |
| |
Alarum. The Romans are beaten back to their trenches. Re-enter MARCIUS. | |
| Mar. All the contagion of the south light on you, | 40 |
| You shames of Rome! you herd of—Boils and plagues | |
| Plaster you o’er, that you may be abhorr’d | |
| Further than seen, and one infect another | |
| Against the wind a mile! You souls of geese, | 44 |
| That bear the shapes of men, how have you run | |
| From slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and hell! | |
| All hurt behind; backs red, and faces pale | |
| With flight and agu’d fear! Mend and charge home, | 48 |
| Or, by the fires of heaven, I’ll leave the foe | |
| And make my wars on you; look to ’t: come on; | |
| If you’ll stand fast, we’ll beat them to their wives, | |
| As they us to our trenches follow’d. | 52 |
| |
Another alarum. The Volsces and Romans re-enter, and the fight is renewed. The Volsces retire into Corioli, and MARCIUS follows them to the gates. | |
| So, now the gates are ope: now prove good seconds: | |
| ’Tis for the followers Fortune widens them, | |
| Not for the fliers: mark me, and do the like. [He enters the gates. | 56 |
| First Sol. Foolhardiness! not I. | |
| Sec. Sol. Nor I. [MARCIUS is shut in. | |
| Third Sol. See, they have shut him in. | |
| All. To the pot, I warrant him. [Alarum continues. | 60 |
| |
Re-enter TITUS LARTIUS. | |
| Lart. What is become of Marcius? | |
| All. Slain, sir, doubtless. | |
| First Sol. Following the fliers at the very heels, | 64 |
| With them he enters; who, upon the sudden, | |
| Clapp’d-to their gates; he is himself alone, | |
| To answer all the city. | |
| Lart. O noble fellow! | 68 |
| Who, sensibly, outdares his senseless sword, | |
| And, when it bows, stands up. Thou art left, Marcius: | |
| A carbuncle entire, as big as thou art, | |
| Were not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a soldier | 72 |
| Even to Cato’s wish, not fierce and terrible | |
| Only in strokes; but, with thy grim looks and | |
| The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds, | |
| Thou mad’st thine enemies shake, as if the world | 76 |
| Were feverous and did tremble. | |
| |
Re-enter MARCIUS, bleeding, assaulted by the enemy. | |
| First Sol. Look, sir! | |
| Lart. O! ’tis Marcius! | 80 |
| Let’s fetch him off, or make remain alike. [They fight, and all enter the city. | |
