Уильям Шекспир - The Tragedy of Coriolanus

Hark you far off!
There is Aufidius; list what work he makes
Amongst your cloven army.

O, they are at it!

Their noise be our instruction. – Ladders, ho!

They fear us not, but issue forth their city.
Now put your shields before your hearts, and fight
With hearts more proof than shields. – Advance, brave Titus:
They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts,
Which makes me sweat with wrath. – Come on, my fellows:
He that retires, I'll take him for a Volsce,
And he shall feel mine edge.

All the contagion of the south light on you,
You shames of Rome! – you herd of – Boils and plagues
Plaster you o'er, that you may be abhorr'd
Farther than seen, and one infect another
Against the wind a mile! You souls of geese
That bear the shapes of men, how have you run
From slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and hell!
All hurt behind; backs red, and faces pale
With flight and agued fear! Mend, and charge home,
Or, by the fires of heaven, I'll leave the foe
And make my wars on you: look to't: come on;
If you'll stand fast we'll beat them to their wives,
As they us to our trenches.

So, now the gates are ope: – now prove good seconds:
'Tis for the followers fortune widens them,
Not for the fliers: mark me, and do the like.

Fool-hardiness: not I.

Nor I.

See, they have shut him in.

To th' pot, I warrant him.

What is become of Marcius?

Slain, sir, doubtless.

Following the fliers at the very heels,
With them he enters; who, upon the sudden,
Clapp'd-to their gates: he is himself alone,
To answer all the city.

O noble fellow!
Who sensible, outdares his senseless sword,
And when it bows stands up! Thou art left, Marcius:
A carbuncle entire, as big as thou art,
Were not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a soldier
Even to Cato's wish, not fierce and terrible
Only in strokes; but with thy grim looks and
The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds
Thou mad'st thine enemies shake, as if the world
Were feverous and did tremble.

Look, sir.

O, 'tis Marcius!
Let's fetch him off, or make remain alike.

This will I carry to Rome.

And I this.

A murrain on't! I took this for silver.

See here these movers that do prize their hours
At a crack'd drachma! Cushions, leaden spoons,
Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would
Bury with those that wore them, these base slaves,
Ere yet the fight be done, pack up: – down with them! —
And hark, what noise the general makes! – To him! —
There is the man of my soul's hate, Aufidius,
Piercing our Romans; then, valiant Titus, take
Convenient numbers to make good the city;
Whilst I, with those that have the spirit, will haste
To help Cominius.

Worthy sir, thou bleed'st;
Thy exercise hath been too violent
For a second course of fight.

Sir, praise me not;
My work hath yet not warm'd me: fare you well;
The blood I drop is rather physical
Than dangerous to me: to Aufidius thus
I will appear, and fight.

Now the fair goddess, Fortune,
Fall deep in love with thee; and her great charms
Misguide thy opposers' swords! Bold gentleman,
Prosperity be thy page!

Thy friend no less
Than those she placeth highest! – So farewell.

Thou worthiest Marcius! —

Go, sound thy trumpet in the market-place;
Call thither all the officers o' the town,
Where they shall know our mind: away!

Breathe you, my friends: well fought; we are come off
Like Romans, neither foolish in our stands
Nor cowardly in retire: believe me, sirs,
We shall be charg'd again. Whiles we have struck,
By interims and conveying gusts we have heard
The charges of our friends. The Roman gods,
Lead their successes as we wish our own,
That both our powers, with smiling fronts encountering,
May give you thankful sacrifice! —

Thy news?

The citizens of Corioli have issued,
And given to Lartius and to Marcius battle:
I saw our party to their trenches driven,
And then I came away.

Though thou speak'st truth,
Methinks thou speak'st not well. How long is't since?

Above an hour, my lord.

'Tis not a mile; briefly we heard their drums:
How couldst thou in a mile confound an hour,
And bring thy news so late?

Spies of the Volsces
Held me in chase, that I was forc'd to wheel
Three or four miles about; else had I, sir,
Half an hour since brought my report.

Who's yonder,
That does appear as he were flay'd? O gods!
He has the stamp of Marcius; and I have
Before-time seen him thus.

The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabor
More than I know the sound of Marcius' tongue
From every meaner man.

Come I too late?