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Auf. Say no more, here come the Lords.
Enter the Lords of the City.

All Lords. You are most welcome home.

Auf. I have not deserv'd it.

But, worthy Lords, have you with heed perus'd
What I have written to you?

All. We have.

1 Lord. And grieve to hear it.

What Faults he made before the laft, I think
Might have found eafie Fines: But there to end,
Where he was to begin, and give away

The benefit of our Levies, answering us

With our own Charge, making a Treaty where
There was a yielding; this admits no excufe.
Auf. He approaches, you fhall hear him.
Enter Coriolanus marching with Drum and Colours, the
Commons being with him.

Cor. Hail, Lords, I am return'd, your Soldier ;
No more infected with my Country's love,
Than when I parted hence, but still fubfifting
Under your great Command. You are to know,
That profperously I have attempted, and
With bloody paffage led your Wars, even to
The Gates of Rome: Our Spoils we have brought home
Doth more than Counterpoife a full third part
The charges of the Action. We have made Peace
With no lefs Honour to the Antiates,

Than Shame to th' Romans: And we here deliver,
Subfcrib'd by th' Confuls and Patricians,
Together with the Seal o'th' Senate, what
We have Compounded on.

Auf. Read it not, Noble Lords,

But tell the Traitor in the highest degree
He hath abus'd your Powers.

Cor. Traitor!How now!

Auf. Ay, Traitor, Martius.

Cor. Martius!

Auf. Ay, Martius, Caius Martius; doft thou think I'll grace thee with that Robbery, thy ftoln name

Coriolanus in Coriolus ?

You Lords and Head o'th' State, perfidiously

He

He has betray'd your Bufinefs, and given up,'
For certain drops of Salt, your City Rome,
I fay your City, to his Wife and Mother,
Breaking his Oath and Refolution like
A twift of rotten Silk, never admitting
Counfel o'th' War; but at his Nurfe's Tears
He whin'd and roar'd away your Victory,
That Pages blush'd at him, and Men of Heart
Look'd wondring each at other.

Cor. Hear'ft thou, Mars?

Auf. Name not the God, thou Boy of Tears.
Cor. Ha!-

Auf. No more.

Cor. Measurelefs Liar, thou haft made my Heart Too great for what contains it. Boy! O Slave!--Pardon me, Lords, 'tis the first time that ever

I was forc'd to fcold. Your Judgments, my grave Lords,
Muft give this Cur the Lie; and his own Notion,

Who wears my ftripes impreft upon him, that
Muft bear my beating to his Grave, fhall join
To thrust the Lie unto him.

I Lord. Peace both, and hear me speak.

Cor. Cut me to pieces, Volfcies, Men and Lads,
Stain all your edges in me. Boy! falfe Hound!
If you have writ your Annals true, 'tis there,
That like an Eagle in a Dove coat, I
Flutter'd your Volfcies in Coriolus.
Alone I did it. Boy!

Auf. Why, Noble Lords,

Will you be put in mind of his blind Fortune, Which was your Shame, by this unholy Braggart, 'Fore your own Eyes and Ears?

All Con. Let him dye for't.

All People. Tear him to pieces, do it préfently: He kill'd my Son, my Daughter, he kill'd my Coufin Marcus, he kill'd my Father.

2 Lord. Peace, hono outrage

The Man is noble, and his Fame folds in

-peace

This Orb o'th' Earth; his laft Offences to us
Shall have judicious hearing. Stand, Aufidius,
And trouble not the Peace.

Cor.

Cor. O that I had him, with fix Aufidinffes, or more; His Tribe; to use my lawful Sword

Auf. Infolent Villain.

All Con. Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him.

[The Confpirators all draw, and kill Martius, who falls, and Aufidius ftands on him.

Lords. Hold, hold, hold, hold.

Auf. My Noble Lords, hear me fpeak.

I Lord. O, Tullus

2 Lord. Thou haft done a deed, whereat

Valour will weep.

3 Lord. Tread not upon him--Mafters all, be quiet, Put up your Swords.

Auf. My Lords,

When you fhall know (as in this Rage

Provok'd by him, you cannot) the great danger
Which this Man's Life did owe you, you'll rejoice
That he is thus cut off. Pleafe it your Honours
To call me to your Senate, I'll deliver

My felf your Loyal Servant, or endure
Your heaviest Cenfure.

I Lord. Bear from hence his Body,

And mourn you for him. Let him be regarded
As the moft Noble Coarfe, that ever Herald
Did follow to his Urn.

2 Lord. His own impatience

Takes from Aufidius a great part of blame :
Let's make the beft of it.

Auf. My Rage is gone,

And I am ftruck with Sorrow: Take him up:
Help three o'th' chiefeft Soldiers; I'll be one.
Beat thou the Drum that it speak mournfully:
Trail your fteel Pikes. Though in this City he
Hath widowed and unchilded many a one,
Which to this hour bewail the Injury,

Yet he shall have a Noble memory. Affift.

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[Exeunt, bearing the Body of Martius. A dead March founded.

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