Act IScene IX
The Roman camp
Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Flourish. Enter, at one door, Cominius with the Romans; at another door, Martius, with his arm in a scarf.
Cominius
If I should tell thee o’er this thy day’s work,Thou’t not believe thy deeds. But I’ll report itWhere senators shall mingle tears with smiles;Where great patricians shall attend and shrug,I’ th’ end admire; where ladies shall be frightedAnd, gladly quaked, hear more; where the dull tribunes,That with the fusty plebeians hate thine honours,Shall say against their hearts “We thank the godsOur Rome hath such a soldier.”Yet cam’st thou to a morsel of this feast,Having fully dined before.
Enter Titus Lartius with his power, from the pursuit.
Lartius
O general,Here is the steed, we the caparison.Hadst thou beheld—
Martius
Pray now, no more. My mother,Who has a charter to extol her blood,When she does praise me grieves me. I have doneAs you have done—that’s what I can;Induced as you have been—that’s for my country.He that has but effected his good willHath overta’en mine act.
Cominius
You shall not beThe grave of your deserving. Rome must knowThe value of her own. ’Twere a concealmentWorse than a theft, no less than a traducement,To hide your doings and to silence thatWhich, to the spire and top of praises vouched,Would seem but modest. Therefore, I beseech you—In sign of what you are, not to rewardWhat you have done—before our army hear me.
Martius
I have some wounds upon me, and they smartTo hear themselves remembered.
Cominius
Should they not,Well might they fester ’gainst ingratitudeAnd tent themselves with death. Of all the horses—Whereof we have ta’en good and good store—of allThe treasure in this field achieved and city,We render you the tenth, to be ta’en forthBefore the common distributionAt your only choice.
Martius
I thank you, general,But cannot make my heart consent to takeA bribe to pay my sword. I do refuse it;And stand upon my common part with thoseThat have beheld the doing.
A long flourish. They all cry “Martius, Martius!” and 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 shallI’ th’ field prove flatterers, let courts and cities beMade all of false-faced soothing! When steel grows softSoft as the parasite’s silk, let him be madeAn ovator for the wars! No more, I say.For that I have not washed my nose that bled,Or foiled some debile wretch—which, without note,Here’s many else have done—you shout me forthIn acclamations hyperbolical,As if I loved my little should be dietedIn praises sauced with lies.
Cominius
Too modest are you,More cruel to your good report than gratefulTo us that give you truly. By your patience,If ’gainst yourself you be incensed, 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 MartiusWears this war’s garland, in token of the whichMy 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 clamour of the host,Caius Martius Coriolanus! BearTh’ addition nobly ever!
Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums.
All
Caius Martius Coriolanus!
Coriolanus
I will go wash;And when my face is fair, you shall perceiveWhether I blush or no. Howbeit, I thank you.I mean to stride your steed and at all timesTo undercrest your good additionTo th’ fairness of my power.
Cominius
So, to our tent,Where, ere we do repose us, we will writeTo Rome of our success.—You, Titus Lartius,Must to Corioles back. Send us to RomeThe best, with whom we may articulateFor their own good and ours.
Lartius
I shall, my lord.
Coriolanus
The gods begin to mock me. I, that nowRefused most princely gifts, am bound to begOf my lord general.
Cominius
Take’t, ’tis yours. What is’t?
Coriolanus
I sometime lay here in CoriolesAt 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 youTo give my poor host freedom.
Cominius
O, well begged!Were he the butcher of my son, he shouldBe free as is the wind.—Deliver him, Titus.
Lartius
Martius, his name?
Coriolanus
By Jupiter, forgot!I am weary; yea, my memory is tired.Have we no wine here?
Cominius
Go we to our tent.The blood upon your visage dries; ’tis timeIt should be looked to. Come.
A flourish of cornets. Exeunt.