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He bow'd his nature, never known before
But to be rough, unswayable, and free.
3 Con. Sir, his stoutnesss,

When he did stand for consul, which he lost
By lack of stooping,-

That I would have spoke of:
Being banish'd for't, he came unto my hearths
Presented to my knife his throat: I took him;
Made him joint servant with me; gave him way
In all his own desires; nay, let him choose
Out of my files, his projects to accomplish,
My best and freshest men; serv'd his designments -
In mine own person; holp to reap the fame,
Which he did end all his ; and took some pride
To do myself this wrong; till, at the last,
I seem'd his follower, not partner; andTM
He wag'd me with his countenance, as if
I had been mercenary.

1 Com

So he did, my lord:
The army marvell'd at it. And, in the last,
When he had carried Rome; and that we look'd
For no less spoil, than glory,---


There was it -
For which my sinews shall be stretch'd upon him.
At a few drops of women's rheum, which are
As cheap as lies, he sold the blood and labour
Of our great action; Therefore shall he die,
And I'll renew me in his fall. But, hark!

[Drums and trumpets sound, with great shouts
of the People.

1 Con. Your native town you enter'd like a post, And had no welcomes home; but he returns, Splitting the air with noise.

2 Con.

And patient fools, Whose children he hath slain, their base throats fear, With giving him glory.


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3. Con.

Therefore, at your vantage,

Ere he express himself, or move the people
With what he would say, let him feel your sword,
Which we will second. When he lies along,
After your way his tale pronounc'd shall bury
His reasons with his body.

Say no more;


Here come the lords.

Enter the Lords of the City.

Auf. I have not deserv'd it.
But, worthy lords, have you with heed perus'd'
What I have written to you?


We liave.
1 Lord. And grieve to hear it.
What faults he made before the last, I think,
Might have found easy fines: but there to end,
Where he was to begin; and give away
The benefit of our levies, answering us
With our own charge; making a treaty, where
There was a yielding; This admits no excuse.
Auf. He approaches, you shall hear him.

Enter Coriolanus with drums and colours; a crowd
of Citizens with him.

Cor. Hail, lords! I am return'd your soldier;
No more infected with my country's love,
Than when I parted hence, but still subsisting
Under your great command. You are to know,
That prosperously I have attempted, and
With bloody passage, led your wars, even to
The gates of Rome. Our spoils we have brought home,
Do more than counterpoise, a full third part,

You are most welcome home.

The charges of the action. We have made peace,
With no less honour to the Antiates,
Than shame to the Romans: And we here deliver,

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Subscrib'd by the consuls and patricians,
Together with the seal o'the senate, what
We have compounded on.

But tell the traitor, in the highest degree
He hath abus'd your powers.

Cor. Traitor!-How now?



Read it not, noble lords;

Ay, traitor, Marcius.·

Auf. Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius; Dost thou think I'll grace thee with that robbery, thy stol'n name Coriolanus in Corioli ?—

You lords and heads of the state, perfidiously
He has betray'd your business, and given up,
For certain drops of salt, your city Rome
(I say, your city,) to his wife and mother:
Breaking his oath and resolution, like
A twist of rotten silk; never admitting
Counsel o'the war; but at his nurse's tears
He whin'd and roar'd away your victory;
That pages blush'd at him, and men of heart
Look'd wondering each at other.

Hear'st thou, Mars?
Auf. Name not the god, thou boy of tears,-


Auf. No more.

Cor. Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart
Too great for what contains it. Boy! O slave!
Pardon me, lords, 'tis the first time that ever
I was fore'd to scold. Your judgements, my grave

Must give this cur the lie: and his own notion

(Who wears my stripes impress'd on him; that must

My beating to his grave!) shall join to thrust
The lie unto him.

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1 Lord

Peace, both, and hear me speak.

Cor. Cut me to pieces, Volces; men and lads,
Stain all your edges on me.-Boy! False hound!
If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there.
That like an eagle in a dove cote, I
Flutter'd your voices in Corioli:
Alone I did it.-Boy!


Why, noble lords,
Will you be put in mind of his blind fortune,
Which was your shame, by this unholy braggart,
"Fore your own eyes and ears?


Let him die for't.

[Several speak at once. Cit. [Speaking promiscuously.] Tear him to pieces, do it presently. He killed my son ;-my daughter ;He killed my cousin Marcus ;--He killed my father.2 Lord. Peace, ho:-no outrage;-peace. The man is noble, and his fame folds in This orb o'the earth: His last offence to us Shall have judicious hearing.--Stand, Aufidius, And trouble not the peace.


O, that I had him,
With six Aufidiuses, or more, his tribe,
To use my lawful sword!

Insolent villain!

Auf. Con. Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him. [Aufidius and the Conspirators draïv, and kill C☛ riolanus, who falls, and Aufidius stands on him. Hold, hold, hold, hold. Auf. My noble masters, hear me speak. 1 Lord.


O Tullus,

2 Lord. Thou hast done a deed whereat valour will


3 L ord. Tread not upon him.-Masters all, be quiet; Put up your swords.

Auf. My lords, when you shall know (as in this rage Vol. 4. Dddl

Provok'd by him, you cannot,) the great danger
Which this man's life did owe you, you'll rejoice
That he is thus cut off. Please it your honours
To call me to your senate, I'll deliver
Myself your loyal servant, or endure
Your heaviest censure.

1 Lord.
Bear from hence his body,
And mourn you for him: let him be regarded
As the most noble corse, that ever herald
Did follow to his urn.

2 Lord.
His own impatience
Takes from Aufidius a great part of blame,
Let's make the best of it.


My rage is gone,
And I am struck with sorrow.-Take him up :-
Help, three o'the chiefest soldiers; I'll be one.-
Beat thou the drum, that it speak mournfully;
Trail your steel pikes.-Though in this city he
Hath widow'd and unchilded many a one,
Which to this hour bewail the injury,
Yet he shall have a noble memory.-

[Exeunt, bearing the body of Coriolanus. A dead

march sounded.


Joseph T. Buckingham, Printer,
Winter-street, Boston.

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