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Cas. I did not: he was but a fool

That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart.

A friend should bear a friend's infirmities;

But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
Bru. I do not, till you practice them on me.
Cas. You love me not.

Bru. I do not like your faults.

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus.

Cas. Come Antony! and young Octavius, come! Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius :

For Cassius is a-weary of the world :

Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;
Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed,
Set in a note book, learned and conned, by rote,
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep
My spirit from mine eyes?-There is my dagger,
And here my naked breast-within, a heart
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold;
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth.
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart.
Strike as thou didst at Cæsar; for I know,

When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.

Bru. Sheath your dagger:

Be angry when you will, it shall have scope :
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor.
O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb,
That carries anger as the flint bears fire;
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,
And strait is cold again.

Cas. Hath Cassius lived

To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him?

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too.

Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. Bru. And my heart too.

Cas. O Brutus !

Bru. What's the matter?

Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me When that rash humor which my mother gave me, Makes me forgetful?

Bru. Yes, Cassius; and henceforth,

When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.



Auf. Where is this fellow?

Whence comest thou? what would'st thou? Thy name?
Why speak'st not? Speak man: what's thy name?
Cor. If Tullus

Not yet thou know'st me, and seeing me, dost not
Think me for the man I am, necessity

Commands me name myself.


What's thy name?

Cor. A name unmusical to the Volscian's ears, And harsh in sound to thine.

Say what's thy name?

Thou hast a grim appearance, and thy face

Bears a command in it; though thy tackle's torn,
Thou shew'st a noble vessel: What's thy name?

Cor. Prepare thy brow to frown: know'st thou me yet?
Auf. I know thee not:-thy name?

Cor. My name is Caius Marcius, who hath done
To thee particularly, and to all the Volces,
Great hurt and mischief; whereto witness may
My surname, Coriolanus: The painful service,
The extreme dangers, and the drops of blood
Shed for my thankless country, are requited

But with that surname; a good memory,
And witness of the malice and displeasure

Which thou should'st bear me: only that name remains; The cruelty and envy of the people,

Permitted by our dastard nobles, who

Have all forsook me, hath devoured the rest;
And suffered me by the voice of slaves to be
Whoop'd out of Rome. Now, this extremity
Hath brought me to thy hearth; not out of hope,
Mistake me not, to save my life; for if

I had fear'd death, of all men i' the world
I would have 'voided thee: but in mere spite,
To be full quit of those my banishers,

Stand I before thee here. Then if thou hast
A heart of wreak in thee, that will revenge

Thine own particular wrongs, and stop these maims
Of shame seen through the country, speed thee straight,
And make my misery serve thy turn; so use it,
That my revengeful services may prove

As benefits to thee; for I will fight

Against my canker'd country with the spleen

Of all the under fiends. But if so be

Thou dar'st not this, and that to prove more fortunes
Thou art tired, then, in a word, I am also
Longer to live most weary, and present


My throat to thee, and to thy ancient malice
Which not to cut, would show thee but a fool;
Since I have ever follow'd thee with hate,
Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country's breast,

And cannot live but to thy shame, unless

It be to do thee service.


O! Marcius, Marcius,

Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my heart A root of ancient envy. If Jupiter

Should from yon cloud speak divine things, and say,

'Tis true; I'd not believe them more than thee,

All noble Marcius.

O let me twine

Mine arms about that body, where against

My grained ash a hundred times hath broke,
And scarred the moon with splinters! Here I clip
The anvil of my sword; and do contest

As hotly and as nobly with thy love,
As ever in ambitious strength I did

Contend against thy valor. Know thou first,'
I loved the maid I married; never man
Sigh'd truer breath: but that I see thee here,
Thou noble thing! more dances my wrapt heart,
Than when I first my wedded mistress saw
Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars! I tell thee,
We have a power on foot; and I had purpose
Once more to hew thy target froin thy brawn,
Or lose mine arm for it: Thou hast beat me out
Twelve several times, and I have nightly since
Dream'd of encounters 'twixt thyself and me;
We have been down together in my sleep,
Unbuckling helms, fisting each other's throat,
And waked half dead with nothing. Worthy Marcius,
Had we no quarrel else to Rome but that
Thou art thence banish'd, we would muster all
From twelve to seventy; and pouring war
Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome,
Like a bold flood o'erbeat. O come, go in,
And take our friendly Senators by the hands;
Who now are here, taking their leaves of me,
Who am prepared against your territories,
Though not for Rome itself.


You bless me, Gods!

Auf. Therefore, most absolute Sir, if thou wilt have The leading of thine own revenges, take

The one half of my commission; and set down,

As best thou art experienced, since thou know'st

Thy country's strength and weakness,-thine own ways:
Whether to knock against the gates of Rome;
Or rudely visit them in parts remote,

To fright them, ere destroy. But come in:
Let me commend thee first to those, that shall

Say, yea, to thy desires. A thousand welcomes!
A more a friend than e'er an enemy;

Yet, Marcius, that was much. Your hand! Most welcome!



Wol. (alone.) Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness!

This is the state of man;-to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely,
His greatness is a ripening, nips his shoot,
And then he falls-as I do. I have ventured
Like little wanton boys, that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory,
But far beyond my depth; my high-blown pride
At length broke under me, and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye.
I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched
Is that poor man who hangs on princes' favor!
There is betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin,
More pangs and fears than war or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

Enter Cromwell.

Why how now, Cromwell?

Crom. I have no power to speak, sir.

Wol. What! amazed at my misfortunes? Can thy

spirit wonder

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