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who, in a cheap eftimation, (12) is worth all your predeceffors fince Deucalion; though, peradventure, some of the best of them were hereditary hangmen. Good-e'en to your Worthips; more of your converfation would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly Plebeians. I will be bold to take my leave of you.

[Brutus and Sicinius ftand a fide.

As Menenius is going out, Enter Volumnia, Virgilia, and Valeria.

How now my (as fair as noble) ladies, and the moon, were the earthly, no nobler; whither do you follow your eyes fo faft?

Vol. Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius ap proaches; for the love of Juno, let's go.

Men. Ha! Marcius coming home?

Vol. Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most profpe rous approbation.

Men. Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank theehoo, Marcius coming home!

Both. Nay, 'tis true.

Vol. Look, here's a letter from him, the State hath another, his wife another, and, I think, there's one at home for you.

Men. I will make my very house reel to night: A letter for me!

Vir. Yes, certain, there's a letter for you, I faw't. Men. A letter for me! it gives me an eftate of seven years health; in which time I will make a lip at the phyfician; the most fovereign prescription in Galen is but Emperic, and to this prefervative of no better re

(12) who, in a cheap Eftimation, is worth all your Prede ceffors fince Deucalion, tho' peradventure, fome of the best of them were hereditary Hangmen.] I won't pretend to affirm, this is an Imitation of the Clofe of Juvenal's 8th Satire; though it has very much the fame Caft, only exceeds it, I think, in Humour, and Poignancy of Satire.

Et tamen ut longè repetas, longéq; revolvas
Nomen, ab infami Gentem deducis Afylo:
Majorum primus quisquis fuit ille tuorum,
Aut Paftor fuit, aut illud quod dicere nolo.

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port than a horse-drench. Is he not wounded? he was wont to come home wounded.

Vir. Oh no, no, no.

Vol. Oh, he is wounded, I thank the Gods for't. Men. So do I too, if he be not too much; brings a'victory in his pocket? the wounds become him.

Vol. On's brows, Menenius; he comes the third time home with the oaken garland.

Men. Hath he difciplin'd Aufidius foundly?

Vol. Titus Lartius writes, they fought together, but Aufidius got off.

Men. And 'twas time for him too, I'll warrant him that: if he had staid by him, I would not have been fo fidius'd for all the chefts in Corioli, and the gold that's in them. Is the Senate poffeft of this?

Vol. Good ladies, let's go. Yes, yes, yes: the Senate has letters from the General, wherein he gives my fon the whole name of the war: he hath in this action out-done his former deeds doubly.

Val. In troth, there's wondrous things fpoke of him. Men. Wondrous! ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchafing.

Vir. The Gods grant them true!

Vol. True? pow, waw.

Men. True? I'll be fworn, they are true. Where is he wounded? God fave your good Worfhips;-Marcius is coming home; he has more cause to be proud: where is he wounded?

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To the Tribunes.

Vol. I'th' fhoulder, and i'th' left arm; there will be large cicatrices to fhew the people, when he fhall ftand for his place. He receiv'd in the repulfe of Tarquin feven hurts i'th' body. (13)

(13) He receiv'd, in the Repulfe of Tarquin, Seven Hurts i'th body. Men One i'th Neck, and two th' Thigh: there's Nine, that I know.] Seven, one, and two, and these make but nine? Surely, we may with Safety affift Menenius in his Arithmetick. This is a ftupid Blunder; but wherever we can account by a probable Reason for the Cause of it, That directs the Emendation. Here it was easy for a negligent Tranfcriber to omit the fecond One as a needless Repetition of the firft, and to make a Numeral word of too.

Mr. Warburton.

Men.

.Men. One i'th' neck, and one too i'th' thigh; there's nine, that I know.

Vol. He had, before this last expedition, twenty five wounds upon him.

Men Now 'tis twenty feven; every gafh was an enemy's Grave. Hark, the trumpets.

[A fhout and flourish. Vol. These are the ufhers of Marcius; before him. he carries noife, and behind him he leaves tears: Death, that dark Spirit, in's nervy arm doth lye; Which being advanc'd, declines, and then men die. Trumpets found. Enter Cominius the General, and Titus Lartius; between them Coriolanus, crown'd with an oaken garland, with Captains and foldiers, and a herald.

Her. Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight Within Corioli gates, where he hath won, With fame, a name to Caius Marcius. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

[Sound. Flourish. All. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! Cor. No more of this, it does offend my heart; Pray now, no more.

Com. Look, Sir, your mother,

Cor. Oh!

You have, I know, petition'd all the Gods

For my profperity.

Vol. Nay, my good foldier, up:

My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and
By deed-atchieving honour newly nam'd,
What is it, Coriolanus, muft I call thee?
But oh, thy wife-

Cor. My gracious filence, hail!

[Kneels.

Would't thou have laugh'd, had I come coffin'd home, That weep'ft to fee me triumph? ah, my Dear,

Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear,

And mothers that lack fons.

Men. Now the Gods crown thee!

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Cor. And live you yet? O my sweet Lady, pardon. [To Valeria. Vol. I know not where to turn. O welcome home; And welcome, General! y'are welcome all.

Men. A hundred thousand welcomes: I could weep, And I could laugh, I'm light and heavy; -welcome! A curse begin at very root on's heart,

That is not glad to fee thee.

You are three,

That Rome fhould dote on: yet, by the faith of men,
We've fome old crab-trees here at home, that will not
Be grafted to your relish. Welcome, Warriors!
We call a nettle, but a nettle; and

The faults of fools, but folly.

Com. Ever right.

Cor. Menenius, ever, ever.

Her. Give way there, and go on.

Cor. Your hand, and yours.

Ere in our own houfe I do fhade my head,

The good Patricians must be vifited;

(14) From whom I have receiv'd not only Greetings, But, with them, Charge of honours.

Vol. I have lived,

To fee inherited my very wishes,

And buildings of my fancy; only one thing

(14) From whom I have receiv'd not only Greetings,

But, with them, Change of Honours.] Change of Honours is a very poor Expreffion, and communicates but a very poor Idea. I have ventur'd to fubftitute, Charge; i, e. a fresh Charge or Commiffion, These Words are frequently mistaken for each other. So, afterwards, in this Play ;.

To tear with Thunder the wide Cheeks o'th' Air,

And yet to change thy Sulphur with a Bolt,

That should but rive an Oak.

For here we must likewise correct, Charge;

And fo in Anth. and Cleopat.

Oh, that I knew this Husband, which, you jay, muft change bis Horns with Garlands!

Here likewife we must read, Charge, i. e. put Garlands upon his Horns. In the Maid's Tragedy, (by Beaumont and Fletcher) Charge is vice verfa printed in all the Editions instead of Change.

For we were wont to charge our Souls in Talk. This, 'tis evident, is Nonfenfe; but Friends, by the Communication of their Thoughts to each other, are finely faid to exchange Souls in Talk.

Is wanting, which, I doubt not, but our Rome

Will cast upon thee.

Cor. Know, good Mother, I
Had rather be their fervant in my way,

Than fway with them in theirs.

Com. On, to the Capitol. [Flourish.

Cornets,

[Exeunt in State, as before.

Brutus, and Sicinius, come forward.

Bru. All tongues fpeak of him, and the bleared fights Are fpectacled to fee him. Your pratling nurse

Into a rapture lets her Baby cry,

While fhe chats him: the kitchen malkin pins
Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck,
Clambring the walls to eye him; ftalls, bulks, windows,
Are fmother'd up, leads fill'd, and ridges hors'd
With variable complexions; all agreeing

In earnestness to fee him; feld-fhown Flamins
Do prefs among the popular throngs, and puff
To win a vulgar ftation; our veil'd dames
Commit the war of white and damask, in
Their nicely-gawded cheeks, to th' wanton fpoil
Of Phoebus' burning kiffes; fuch a pother,
As if that whatfoever God, who leads him,
Were flily crept into his human powers,
And gave him graceful posture,

Sic. On the fudden,

I warrant him Conful.

Bru. Then our Office may,

During his Power, go fleep.

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Sic. He cannot temp'rately transport his honours, From where he should begin and end, but will

Lose those he hath won.

Bru. In That there's comfort.

Sic. Doubt not,

The Commoners, for whom we stand, but they

Upon their ancient malice, will forget,

With the leaft caufe, thefe his new honours; which

That he will give, make I as little question

As he is proud to do't.

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