He would not flatter Neptune for his trident,Or Jove for’s power to thunder. His heart’s his mouth:
What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent;
And, being angry, does forget that ever
He heard the name of death.
[A noise within.]
Here’s goodly work!
SECOND PATRICIAN.
I would they were a-bed!
MENENIUS.
I would they were in Tiber!
What the vengeance, could he not speak ‘em fair?
[Re-enter BRUTUS and SICINIUS, with the rabble.]
SICINIUS.
Where is this viper
That would depopulate the city and
Be every man himself?
MENENIUS.
You worthy tribunes,—
SICINIUS.
He shall be thrown down the Tarpeian rock
With rigorous hands: he hath resisted law,
And therefore law shall scorn him further trial
Than the severity of the public power,
Which he so sets at nought.
FIRST CITIZEN.
He shall well know
The noble tribunes are the people’s mouths,
And we their hands.
CITIZENS.
He shall, sure on’t.
MENENIUS.
Sir, sir,—
SICINIUS.
Peace!
MENENIUS.
Do not cry havoc, where you should but hunt
With modest warrant.
SICINIUS.
Sir, how comes’t that you
Have holp to make this rescue?
MENENIUS.
Hear me speak:—
As I do know the consul’s worthiness,
So can I name his faults,—
SICINIUS.
Consul!—what consul?
MENENIUS.
The consul Coriolanus.
BRUTUS.
He consul!
CITIZENS.
No, no, no, no, no.
MENENIUS.
If, by the tribunes’ leave, and yours, good people,
I may be heard, I would crave a word or two;
The which shall turn you to no further harm
Than so much loss of time.
SICINIUS.
Speak briefly, then;
For we are peremptory to dispatch
This viperous traitor: to eject him hence
Were but one danger; and to keep him here
Our certain death: therefore it is decreed
He dies tonight.
MENENIUS.
Now the good gods forbid
That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude
Towards her deserved children is enroll’d
In Jove’s own book, like an unnatural dam
Should now eat up her own!
SICINIUS.
He’s a disease that must be cut away.
MENENIUS.
O, he’s a limb that has but a disease;
Mortal, to cut it off; to cure it, easy.
What has he done to Rome that’s worthy death?
Killing our enemies, the blood he hath lost,—
Which I dare vouch is more than that he hath
By many an ounce,—he dropt it for his country;
And what is left, to lose it by his country
Were to us all, that do’t and suffer it
A brand to the end o’ the world.
SICINIUS.
This is clean kam.
BRUTUS.
Merely awry: when he did love his country,
It honour’d him.
MENENIUS.
The service of the foot,
Being once gangren’d, is not then respected
For what before it was.
BRUTUS.
We’ll hear no more.—
Pursue him to his house, and pluck him thence;
Lest his infection, being of catching nature,
Spread further.
MENENIUS.
One word more, one word.
This tiger-footed rage, when it shall find
The harm of unscann’d swiftness, will, too late,
Tie leaden pounds to’s heels. Proceed by process;
Lest parties,—as he is belov’d,—break out,
And sack great Rome with Romans.
BRUTUS.
