Which not to cut, would fhew thee but a Fool, Drawn Tuns of Blood out of thy Country's Breast, Auf. Oh, Martius, Martius, Each word thou haft fpoke, hath weeded from my Heart Should from yon Cloud fpeak Divine things, Ff 4 1975 Cor Cor. You blefs me, Gods. Auf. Therefore, moft abfolute Sir, if thou wilt have The leading of thine own Revenges, take The one half of my Commiffion, and set down To fright them, e'er deftroy. But come in, Yet, Martius, that was much. Your Hand; moft welcome. Enter two Servants. 1 Ser. Here's a ftrange Alteration. [Exeunt. 2 Ser. By my Hand, I had thought to have ftrucken him with a Cudgel, and yet my Mind gave me, his Clothes made a falfe report of him. 1 Ser. What an Arm he has, he turn'd me about with his Finger and his Thumb, as one would fet up a Top. 2 Ser. Nay, I knew by his Face that there was fomething in him. He had, Sir, a kind of Face, methought-I cannot tell how to term it. 1 Ser. He had fo: looking, as it were---would I were hanged but I thought there was more in him than I could think. 2 Ser. So did I, I'll be fworn: He is fimply the rarest Man i'th' World. 1 Ser. I think he is; but a greater Soldier than he, You wot one. a Ser. Who, my Mafter? 1 Ser. Nay, it's no matter for that. 2 Ser. Worth fix on him. 1 Ser. Nay, not fo neither; but I take him to be the great er Soldier. 2 Ser. Faith, look you, one cannot tell how to fay that; for the defence of a Town, our General is excellent. Ser. Ay, and for an Affault too. Enter a third Servant. 3 Ser. Oh Slaves, I can tell you News; News, you Rafcals. Both. Both. What, what, what? Let's partake. 3 Ser. I would not be a Roman of all Nations; I had as Lieve be a condemn'd Man. Both. Wherefore? wherefore? 3 Ser. Why here's he that was wont to thwack our General, Caius Martins. 1 Ser. Why do you fay, thwack our General? 3 Ser. I do not fay thwack our General, but he was always good enough for him. 2 Ser. Come, we are Fellows and Friends; he was ever too hard for him, I have heard him fay so himself. 1 Ser. He was too hard for him directly, to fay the Troth on't; before Coriolus, he fcotcht him and notcht him like a Carbonado. 2 Ser. And, had he been Cannibally given, he might have boil'd and eaten him too. 1 Ser. But more of thy News. 3 Ser. Why he is so made on here within, as if he were Son and Heir to Mars: Set at upper end o'th' Table ;. no Question askt him by any of the Senators, but they stand bald before him. Our General himself makes a Mistress of him, fanctifies himself with's Hands, and turns up the white o'th' Eye to his Difcourfe. But the bottom of the News is, our General is cut i'th' middle, and but one half of what he was yesterday. For the other has half, by the intreaty and grant of the whole Table. He'll go, he fays, and fowle the Porter of Rome Gates by th' Ears. He will mow down all before him, and leave his paffage poll'd. 2 Ser. And he's as like to do't as any Man I can imagine. 3 Ser. Do't! he will do't: For look you, Sir, he has as many Friends as Enemies; which Friends, Sir, as it were, durft not (look you, Sir) fhew themselves (as we term it) his Friends, whilft he's in Directitude. 1 Ser. Directitude! What's that? 3 Ser. But when they fhall fee, Sir, his Creft up again, and the Man in Blood, they will out of their Burroughs (like Conies after Rain) and revel all with him. 1 Ser. But when goes this forward? 3 Ser. To Morrow, to Day, prefently, you shall have the Drum ftruck up this Afternoon: 'Tis as it were a parcel of their Feaft, and to be executed e'er they wipe their Lips. 1974 Auf. What is thy Name? Cor. A Name unmufical to Volfcians Ears, And harth in found to thine. Auf. Say, what's thy Name? Thou haft a grim appearance, and thy Face Cor. My Name is Caius Martius, who hath done སྤྱ Acana by Soured Country, with the pla Flencs. But if fo be, Tore de in, and thus to prove more Fact འ S to be OF OUR C For if cer han when 15-feed Mattres Aw da eam't of Encounters with and me: hou have been down together in my Sier e reve prove buckling Helms, fifting each others Throat, wak'd half dead with nothing. Worthy Marans, 1 we no Quarrel elfe to Rome, but that ou art thence banifh'd, we would mutter alt in twelve to feventy; and pouring War Ove the Bowels of ungrateful Rome, za bold Flood o'er-bear. Oh come, go in, take our Friendly Senators by th' Hands, now are here, taking their leaves of me, Ce am prepar'd against your Territories, ugh not for Rome it felf. Ff 4 Cor |