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with CAPTAINS and soldiers. To them a MESSENGER |
MARCIUS. Yonder comes news; a wager- they have met. |
LARTIUS. My horse to yours- no. |
MARCIUS. 'Tis done. |
LARTIUS. Agreed. |
MARCIUS. Say, has our general met the enemy? |
MESSENGER. They lie in view, but have not spoke as yet. |
LARTIUS. So, the good horse is mine. |
MARCIUS. I'll buy him of you. |
LARTIUS. No, I'll nor sell nor give him; lend you him I will |
For half a hundred years. Summon the town. |
MARCIUS. How far off lie these armies? |
MESSENGER. Within this mile and half. |
MARCIUS. Then shall we hear their 'larum, and they ours. |
Now, Mars, I prithee, make us quick in work, |
That we with smoking swords may march from hence |
To help our fielded friends! Come, blow thy blast. |
They sound a parley. Enter two SENATORS with others, |
on the walls of Corioli |
Tullus Aufidius, is he within your walls? |
FIRST SENATOR. No, nor a man that fears you less than he: |
That's lesser than a little. [Drum afar off] Hark, our drums |
Are bringing forth our youth. We'll break our walls |
Rather than they shall pound us up; our gates, |
Which yet seem shut, we have but pinn'd with rushes; |
They'll open of themselves. [Alarum far off] Hark you far off! |
There is Aufidius. List what work he makes |
Amongst your cloven army. |
MARCIUS. O, they are at it! |
LARTIUS. Their noise be our instruction. Ladders, ho! |
Enter the army of the Volsces |
MARCIUS. They fear us not, but issue forth their city. |
Now put your shields before your hearts, and fight |
With hearts more proof than shields. Advance, brave Titus. |
They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts, |
Which makes me sweat with wrath. Come on, my fellows. |
He that retires, I'll take him for a Volsce, |
And he shall feel mine edge. |
Alarum. The Romans are beat back to their trenches. |
Re-enter MARCIUS, cursing |
MARCIUS. All the contagion of the south light on you, |
You shames of Rome! you herd of- Boils and plagues |
Plaster you o'er, that you may be abhorr'd |
Farther than seen, and one infect another |
Against the wind a mile! You souls of geese |
That bear the shapes of men, how have you run |
From slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and hell! |
All hurt behind! Backs red, and faces pale |
With flight and agued fear! Mend and charge home, |
Or, by the fires of heaven, I'll leave the foe |
And make my wars on you. Look to't. Come on; |
If you'll stand fast we'll beat them to their wives, |
As they us to our trenches. Follow me. |
Another alarum. The Volsces fly, and MARCIUS follows |
them to the gates |
So, now the gates are ope; now prove good seconds; |
'Tis for the followers fortune widens them, |
Not for the fliers. Mark me, and do the like. |
[MARCIUS enters the gates] |
FIRST SOLDIER. Fool-hardiness; not I. |
SECOND SOLDIER. Not I. [MARCIUS is shut in] |
FIRST SOLDIER. See, they have shut him in. |
ALL. To th' pot, I warrant him. [Alarum continues] |
Re-enter TITUS LARTIUS |
LARTIUS. What is become of Marcius? |
ALL. Slain, sir, doubtless. |
FIRST SOLDIER. Following the fliers at the very heels, |
With them he enters; who, upon the sudden, |
Clapp'd to their gates. He is himself alone, |
To answer all the city. |
LARTIUS. O noble fellow! |
Who sensibly outdares his senseless sword, |
And when it bows stand'st up. Thou art left, Marcius; |
A carbuncle entire, as big as thou art, |
Were not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a soldier |
Even to Cato's wish, not fierce and terrible |
Only in strokes; but with thy grim looks and |
The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds |
Thou mad'st thine enemies shake, as if the world |
Were feverous and did tremble. |
Re-enter MARCIUS, bleeding, assaulted by the enemy |
FIRST SOLDIER. Look, sir. |
LARTIUS. O, 'tis Marcius! |
Let's fetch him off, or make remain alike. |
[They fight, and all enter the city] |
SCENE V. |
Within Corioli. A street |
Enter certain Romans, with spoils |
FIRST ROMAN. This will I carry to Rome. |
SECOND ROMAN. And I this. |
THIRD ROMAN. A murrain on 't! I took this for silver. |
[Alarum continues still afar off] |
Enter MARCIUS and TITUS LARTIUS With a trumpeter |
MARCIUS. See here these movers that do prize their hours |
At a crack'd drachma! Cushions, leaden spoons, |
Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would |
Bury with those that wore them, these base slaves, |
Ere yet the fight be done, pack up. Down with them! |
Exeunt pillagers |
And hark, what noise the general makes! To him! |
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