Act I, Scene 9
The Roman camp.
- Flourish. Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Enter, at one door,
- Cominius, with the Roman Soldiers; at another door, Martius
- with his arm in a scarf.
Cominius1 - 11
- If I should tell thee o’er this thy day’s work,
- Thou’t not believe thy deeds: but I’ll report it
- Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles;
- Where great patricians shall attend and shrug,
- I’ th’ end admire; where ladies shall be frighted,
- And gladly quak’d, hear more; where the dull tribunes,
- That with the fusty plebeians hate thine honors,
- Shall say against their hearts, “We thank the gods
- Our Rome hath such a soldier.”
- Yet cam’st thou to a morsel of this feast,
- Having fully din’d before.
- Enter Titus Lartius with his power, from the pursuit.
Lartius12 - 14
- O general!
- Here is the steed, we the caparison.
- Hadst thou beheld—
Caius Martius15 - 21
- Pray now, no more. My mother,
- Who has a charter to extol her blood,
- When she does praise me grieves me. I have done
- As you have done—that’s what I can; induc’d
- As you have been—that’s for my country:
- He that has but effected his good will
- Hath overta’en mine act.
Cominius22 - 30
- You shall not be
- The grave of your deserving; Rome must know
- The value of her own. ’Twere a concealment
- Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement,
- To hide your doings, and to silence that
- Which, to the spire and top of praises vouch’d,
- Would seem but modest; therefore I beseech you,
- In sign of what you are, not to reward
- What you have done, before our army hear me.
Caius Martius31 - 32
- I have some wounds upon me, and they smart
- To hear themselves rememb’red.
Cominius33 - 40
- Should they not,
- Well might they fester ’gainst ingratitude,
- And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses—
- Whereof we have ta’en good and good store—of all
- The treasure in this field achiev’d and city,
- We render you the tenth, to be ta’en forth,
- Before the common distribution, at
- Your only choice.
Caius Martius41 - 58
- I thank you, general;
- But cannot make my heart consent to take
- A bribe to pay my sword. I do refuse it,
- And stand upon my common part with those
- That have beheld the doing.
- A long flourish. They all cry, “Martius! Martius!”, cast up
- their caps and lances. Cominius and Lartius stand bare.
- May these same instruments, which you profane,
- Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall
- I’ th’ field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be
- Made all of false-fac’d soothing!
- When steel grows soft as the parasite’s silk,
- Let him be made an overture for th’ wars!
- No more, I say! For that I have not wash’d
- My nose that bled, or foil’d some debile wretch—
- Which, without note, here’s many else have done—
- You shout me forth
- In acclamations hyperbolical,
- As if I lov’d my little should be dieted
- In praises sauc’d with lies.
Cominius59 - 72
- Too modest are you;
- More cruel to your good report than grateful
- To us that give you truly. By your patience,
- If ’gainst yourself you be incens’d, we’ll put you
- (Like one that means his proper harm) in manacles,
- Then reason safely with you. Therefore be it known,
- As to us, to all the world, that Caius Martius
- Wears this war’s garland; in token of the which,
- My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him,
- With all his trim belonging; and from this time,
- For what he did before Corioles, call him,
- With all th’ applause and clamor of the host,
- Martius Caius Coriolanus! Bear
- Th’ addition nobly ever!
- Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums.
- Martius Caius Coriolanus!
Coriolanus74 - 79
- I will go wash;
- And when my face is fair, you shall perceive
- Whether I blush or no; howbeit, I thank you.
- I mean to stride your steed, and at all times
- To undercrest your good addition
- To th’ fairness of my power.
Cominius80 - 85
- So, to our tent;
- Where, ere we do repose us, we will write
- To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius,
- Must to Corioles back. Send us to Rome
- The best, with whom we may articulate
- For their own good and ours.
- I shall, my lord.
Coriolanus87 - 89
- 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?
Coriolanus91 - 96
- I sometime lay here in Corioles
- At a poor man’s house; he us’d me kindly.
- He cried to me; I saw him prisoner;
- But then Aufidius was within my view,
- And wrath o’erwhelm’d my pity. I request you
- To give my poor host freedom.
Cominius97 - 99
- O, well begg’d!
- Were he the butcher of my son, he should
- Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus.
- Martius, his name?
Coriolanus101 - 103
- By Jupiter, forgot!
- I am weary, yea, my memory is tir’d.
- Have we no wine here?
Cominius104 - 106
- Go we to our tent.
- The blood upon your visage dries, ’tis time
- It should be look’d to. Come.