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I was forc'd to scold. Your judgements, my grave

lords, Must give this cur the lie: and his own notion (Who wears my stripes impress'd on him ; that must

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

1 Lord. Peace, both, and bear 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?
Con. 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 kill. ed my father.

2 Lord. Peace, ho ;-00 outrage ;- peace.
The man is noble, and his fame folds in
This orb o'the earth. His last offence to us
Shall have judicioust 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 ! Con. Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him. [Aufidius and the Conspirators draw, and

kill Coriolanus, who falls, and Aufidius. stands on him.

• His fame overspreads the world.

+ Judicial.


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 weep.

3 Lord. Tread not upon him.-Masters all, be

Put up your swords.
Auf. My lords, when you shall know (as in this

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 of the chiefest soldiers; I'll be one.
Beat thou the drum, that it speak mournfully:
Trail your steel pikes.-Though in this city he
IIath widow'd and unchilded many a one,
Which to this hour bewail the injury,
Yet he shall have a noble piemory*.-
(Ereunt, bearing the body of Coriolanus.

A dead march sounded.

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• Memorial.

The tragedy of Coriolanus is one of the most amusing of our author's performances. The old man's merriment in Menenius; the lofty lady's dig. nity in Volumpia; the bridal modesty in Virgilia ; the patrician and military haughtiness in Coriolanus; the plebeian malignity and tribunitian inso. lence in Brutus and Sicinius, make a very pleasing and interesting variety; and the various revolutions of the hero's fortune, fill the mind with anxious curiosity. There is, perhaps, too much bustle in the first act, and too little in the last.



Printed by S. Hamilton, Weybridge.

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