Which you deny already; yet we will afk, Our with, which fide fhou'd win. For either thou With manacles along our street; or elfe Thefe wars determine: If I can't perfuade thee 'Than feek the end of one: thou fhalt no fconer (Truft to't, thou fhalt not) on thy mother's womb, That brought thee to this world. Vir. Ay, and mine too, That brought you forth this boy, to keep your name Living to time. Bay. Boy. He fhall not tread on me: I'll run away till I'm bigger, but then I'll fight. Requires, nor child, nor woman's face, to fee: Vol. Nay, go not from us thus : If it were fo, that our requeft did tend The Volfcians whom you ferve, you might condemn us, As poisonous of your honour: No; our fuit Is, that you reconcile them: while the Volfcians great fon, May fay, This mercy we have fhew'd;' the Romans, To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o'th' air, Than can our reafons. There's no man in the world. (28) And yet to change thy Sulphur with a Bolt, That should but rive an Oak.] All the printed Copies concur in this Reading, but I have certainly reftored the true Word. Vide the 11th Note on this Play. When When fhe, (poor hen) fond of no fecond brood, Thou art not honeft, and the Gods will plague thee, Like him by chance; yet give us our dispatch: And then I'll speak a little. Cor. O mother, mother! [Holds her by the hands, filent. But for your fon, believe it, oh, believe it, (29) This Fellow bad a Volfcian to bis Mother;" His Wife is in Corioli; and his Child Like bim by Chance ----] But tho' his Wife was in Corioli, might not his Child, nevertheless, be like him? The minute Alteration I have made, I am perfuaded, reftores the true Reading. Volumnia would hint, that Coriolanus by his ftern Behaviour had loft all Family-Regards, and did not remember that he had any Child. I am not his Mother, (fays fhe) his Wife is in Corioli, and this Child, whom we bring with us, (young Marcius) is not his Child, but only bears his Refemblance by chance. Aufidius, Aufidius, though I cannot make true wars, Auf. I too was mov'd. Cor. I dare be fworn, you were; And, Sir, it is no little thing to make Mine eyes to sweat compaffion. But, good Sir, Auf. I'm glad, thou'ft set thy mercy and thy honour At difference in thee; out of that I'll work Myfelf a former fortune. [Afide Cor. Ay, by and by; but we will drink together; And you fhall bear [To Vol: Virg. &c. A better witnefs back than words, which we, [Exeunt. SCENE, the Forum, in ROME. Enter Menenius and Sicinius. Men.EE you yond coin o'th' Capitol, yond cornerAtone? Sic. Why, what of that ? Men. If it be poffible for you to difplace it with your little finger, there is fome hope the ladies of Rome, efpecially his mother, may prevail with him. But, I fay, there is no hope in't: our throats are fentenc'd, and stay upon execution. Sic. Is't poffible, that fo fhort a time can alter the condition of a man? Men. There is a difference between a grub and a butterfly, yet your butterfly was a grub; this Marcius is is grown from man to dragon: he has wings, he's more than a creeping thing. Sic. He lov'd his mother dearly. Men. So did he me; and he no more remembers his mother now, than an eight years old horfe. The tartnefs of his face fours ripe grapes. When he walks, he moves like an engine, and the ground fhrinks before his treading. He is able to pierce a corflet with his eye: talks like a knell, and his hum is a battery. He fits in his state, as a thing made for Alexander. What he bids be done, is finished with his bidding. He wants nothing of a God, but eternity, and a heaven to throne in. Sic. Yes, mercy, if you report him truly. Men. I paint him in the character. Mark, what mercy his mother fhall bring from him; there is no more mercy in him, then there is milk in a male tyger; that shall our poor city find; and all this is 'long of you. Sic. The Gods be good unto us! Men. No, in fuch a cafe the Gods will not be good unto us. When we banifhed him, we respected not them: and, he returning to break our necks, they respect not us. Enter a Meffenger. Mef. Sir, if you'd fafe your life, fly to your houfe ; Enter another Messenger. Sic. What's the news? Mef. Good news, good news, the Ladies have prevail'd, The Volfcians are diflodg'd, and Marcius gone : A merrier day did never yet greet Rome, No, not th' expulfion of the Tarquins. |