The Complete Tragedies of William Shakespeare - All 12 Books in One Edition. William Shakespeare

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