fect my brain, being the herdsman of the beastly plebeians. I will be bold to take my leave of you.

[BRUTUS and SICINIUS retire to the back of the Scene.

Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and VALERIA, &c.

How now, my as fair as noble ladies, (and the moon, were she earthly, no nobler) whither do you follow your eyes so fast?

Vol. Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius approaches; for the love of Juno, let's go.

Men. Ha! Marcius coming home?

Vol. Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous approbation.

Men. Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee. Ho! Marcius coming home?

Two Ladies. Nay, 't is true.

Vol. Look, here's a letter from him: the state hath another, his wife another; and, I think, there 's one at home for you. Men. I will make my very house reel to-night.

me?

A letter for

Vir. Yes, certain, there's a letter for you; I saw it.

Men. A letter for me? It gives me an estate of seven years' health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician: the most sovereign prescription in Galen is but empiricutic, and, to this preservative, of no better report than a horse-drench. Is he not wounded? he was wont to come home wounded.

Vir. O! no, no, no.

Vol. O! he is wounded; I thank the gods for 't.

Men. So do I too, if it be not too much. in his pocket? - The wounds become him.

Brings 'a victory

Vol. On's brows: Menenius, he comes the third time home with the oaken garland.

Men. Has he disciplined Aufidius soundly?

Vol. Titus Lartius writes, they fought together, but Aufidius got off.

Men. And 't was time for him too; I'll warrant him that: an he had stay'd by him, I would not have been so fidiused for all the

chests in Corioli, and the gold that's in them. Is the senate possessed of this?

Vol. Good ladies, let's go. — Yes, yes, yes: the senate has letters from the general, wherein he gives my son the whole name of the war. He hath in this action outdone his former deeds doubly.

Val. In troth, there's wondrous things spoke of him.

Men. Wondrous: ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing.

Vir. The gods grant them true!

Vol. True! pow, wow.

Men. True! I'll be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded? - God save your good worships! [To the Tribunes, who come forward.] Marcius is coming home: he has more cause to be proud. — Where is he wounded?

Vol. I' the shoulder, and i' the left arm: there will be large cicatrices to show the people, when he shall stand for his place. He received in the repulse of Tarquin seven hurts i' the body.

Men. One i' the neck, and two i' the thigh, — there 's nine that I know.

Vol. He had, before this last expedition, twenty-five wounds upon him.

Men. Now it's twenty-seven: every gash was an enemy's grave. [A Shout and Flourish.] Hark! the trumpets. Vol. These are the ushers of Marcius: before him He carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears. Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie;

Which, being advanc'd, declines, and then men die.

A Sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter COMINIUS and TITUS LABTIUS; between them, CORIOLANUS, crowned with an oaken Garland; with Captains, Soldiers, and a Herald.

Her. Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight

Within Corioli's gates: where he hath won,

With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these
In honour follows, Coriolanus:-

Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

{Flourish.

All. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!
Cor. No more of this; it does offend my heart:

What is it? Coriolanus, must I call thee?

But O! thy wife

Cor.

My gracious silence, hail!

Would'st thou have laugh'd, had I come coffin'd home,
That weep'st to see me triumph? Ah! my dear,

Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear,

And mothers that lack sons.

Now, the gods crown thee!

Men.
Cor. And live you yet? O my sweet lady, pardon.

[TO VALERIA Vol. I know not where to turn: O! welcome home; And welcome, general; — and you are welcome all.

Men. A hundred thousand welcomes: I could weep,
And I could laugh; I am light, and heavy. Welcome!
A curse begin at very root on's heart,

That is not glad to see thee! - You are three,

That Rome should dote on; yet, by the faith of men,

We have some old crab-trees here at home, that will not
Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors!

We call a nettle, but a nettle; and

The faults of fools, but folly.

The good patricians must be visited;

From whom I have receiv'd, not only greetings,

But with them change of honours.

Vol.

To see inherited my very wishes,

And the buildings of my fancy:

I have lived

Only there's one thing wanting, which I doubt not,
But our Rome will cast upon thee.

Cor.

Know, good mother,

I had rather be their servant in my way,

Than sway with them in theirs.

Com.

[Flourish.

On, to the Capitol!

Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before.

The Tribunes remain.

Bru. All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights Are spectacled to see him: your prattling nurse

Into a rapture lets her baby cry

While she chats him: the kitchen malkin pins

Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck,

Clambering the walls to eye him: stalls, bulks, windows,
Are smother'd up, leads fill'd, and ridges hors'd
With variable complexions, all agreeing

In earnestness to see him: seld-shown flamens
Do press among the popular throngs, and puff
To win a vulgar station: our veil'd dames
Commit the war of white and damask in
Their nicely-gawded cheeks to the wanton spoil
Of Phoebus' burning kisses: such a pother,
As if that whatsoever god, who leads him,
Were slily crept into his human powers,
And gave him graceful posture.

Sic.

I warrant him consul.

Bru.

On the sudden

Then our office may,

During his power, go sleep.

Sic. He cannot temperately transport his honours

From where he should begin, and end; but will
Lose those he hath won.

Bru.

In that there 's comfort.

Sic. Doubt not, the commoners, for whom we stand,
But they, upon their ancient malice, will

Forget, with the least cause, these his new honours;
Which that he'll give them, make I as little question
As he is proud to do 't.

Were he to stand for consul, never would he
Appear i' the market-place, nor on him put
The napless vesture of humility;

Nor, showing (as the manner is) his wounds
To the people, beg their stinking breaths.

Sic.

'T is right.

Bru. It was his word. O! he would miss it, rather Than carry it but by the suit o' the gentry to him,

And the desire of the nobles.

Sic.

I wish no better,

Than have him hold that purpose, and to put it

Sic. It shall be to him, then, as our good wills,

To him, or our authorities. For an end,

We must suggest the people, in what hatred

He still hath held them; that to his power he would
Have made them mules, silenc'd their pleaders, and
Dispropertied their freedoms; holding them,

In human action and capacity,

Of no more soul, nor fitness for the world,
Than camels in their war; who have their provand

Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows

For sinking under them.

Sic.

This, as you say, suggested

At some time when his soaring insolence

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