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      I shall, my lord.

      The gods begin to mock me. I, that now

      Refus'd most princely gifts, am bound to beg

      Of my lord general.

      Take't: 'tis yours. – What is't?

      I sometime lay here in Corioli

      At a poor man's house; he used me kindly:

      He cried to me; I saw him prisoner;

      But then Aufidius was within my view,

      And wrath o'erwhelmed my pity: I request you

      To give my poor host freedom.

      O, well begg'd!

      Were he the butcher of my son, he should

      Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus.

      Marcius, his name?

      By Jupiter, forgot: —

      I am weary; yea, my memory is tir'd. —

      Have we no wine here?

      Go we to our tent:

      The blood upon your visage dries; 'tis time

      It should be look'd to: come.

      The town is ta'en.

      'Twill be delivered back on good condition.

      Condition!

      I would I were a Roman; for I cannot,

      Being a Volsce, be that I am. – Condition?

      What good condition can a treaty find

      I' the part that is at mercy? – Five times, Marcius,

      I have fought with thee; so often hast thou beat me;

      And wouldst do so, I think, should we encounter

      As often as we eat. – By the elements,

      If e'er again I meet him beard to beard,

      He's mine or I am his: mine emulation

      Hath not that honour in't it had; for where

      I thought to crush him in an equal force, —

      True sword to sword, – I'll potch at him some way,

      Or wrath or craft may get him.

      He's the devil.

      Bolder, though not so subtle. My valour's poisoned

      With only suffering stain by him; for him

      Shall fly out of itself: nor sleep nor sanctuary,

      Being naked, sick; nor fane nor Capitol,

      The prayers of priests nor times of sacrifice,

      Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up

      Their rotten privilege and custom 'gainst

      My hate to Marcius: where I find him, were it

      At home, upon my brother's guard, even there,

      Against the hospitable canon, would I

      Wash my fierce hand in's heart. Go you to the city;

      Learn how 'tis held; and what they are that must

      Be hostages for Rome.

      Will not you go?

      I am attended at the cypress grove: I pray you, —

      'Tis south the city mills, – bring me word thither

      How the world goes, that to the pace of it

      I may spur on my journey.

      I shall, sir.

      The augurer tells me we shall have news tonight.

      Good or bad?

      Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not

      Marcius.

      Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.

      Pray you, who does the wolf love?

      The lamb.

      Ay, to devour him, as the hungry plebeians would the noble

      Marcius.

      He's a lamb indeed, that baas like a bear.

      MENENIUS. He's a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two are old men: tell me one thing that I shall ask you.

      Well, sir.

      MENENIUS. In what enormity is Marcius poor in, that you two have not in abundance?

      He's poor in no one fault, but stored with all.

      Especially in pride.

      And topping all others in boasting.

      MENENIUS. This is strange now: do you two know how you are censured here in the city, I mean of us o' the right-hand file? Do you?

      Why, how are we censured?

      Because you talk of pride now, – will you not be angry?

      Well, well, sir, well.

      MENENIUS. Why, 'tis no great matter; for a very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience: give your dispositions the reins, and be angry at your pleasures; at the least, if you take it as a pleasure to you in being so. You blame Marcius for being proud?

      We do it not alone, sir.

      MENENIUS. I know you can do very little alone; for your helps are many, or else your actions would grow wondrous single: your abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone. You talk of pride: O that you could turn your eyes toward the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves! O that you could!

      What

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