Уильям Шекспир: The Tragedy of Coriolanus

I have some wounds upon me, and they smart
To hear themselves remember'd.

Should they not,
Well might they fester 'gainst ingratitude,
And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses, —
Whereof we have ta'en good, and good store, – of all
The treasure in this field achiev'd and city,
We render you the tenth; to be ta'en forth
Before the common distribution at
Your only choice.

I thank you, general,
But cannot make my heart consent to take
A bribe to pay my sword: I do refuse it;
And stand upon my common part with those
That have beheld the doing.

caps and lances. COMINIUS and LARTIUS stand bare.]
May these same instruments which you profane
Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall
I' the field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be
Made all of false-fac'd soothing.
When steel grows soft as the parasite's silk,
Let him be made a coverture for the wars.
No more, I say! for that I have not wash'd
My nose that bled, or foil'd some debile wretch, —
Which, without note, here's many else have done, —
You shout me forth in acclamations hyperbolical;
As if I loved my little should be dieted
In praises sauc'd with lies.

Too modest are you;
More cruel to your good report than grateful
To us that give you truly; by your patience,
If 'gainst yourself you be incens'd, we'll put you, —
Like one that means his proper harm, – in manacles,
Then reason safely with you. – Therefore be it known,
As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius
Wears this war's garland: in token of the which,
My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him,
With all his trim belonging; and from this time,
For what he did before Corioli, call him,
With all the applause – and clamour of the host,
'Caius Marcius Coriolanus.' —
Bear the addition nobly ever!

Caius Marcius Coriolanus!

I will go wash;
And when my face is fair you shall perceive
Whether I blush or no: howbeit, I thank you; —
I mean to stride your steed; and at all times
To undercrest your good addition
To the fairness of my power.

So, to our tent;
Where, ere we do repose us, we will write
To Rome of our success. – You, Titus Lartius,
Must to Corioli back: send us to Rome
The best, with whom we may articulate
For their own good and ours.

I shall, my lord.

The gods begin to mock me. I, that now
Refus'd most princely gifts, am bound to beg
Of my lord general.

Take't: 'tis yours. – What is't?

I sometime lay here in Corioli
At a poor man's house; he used me kindly:
He cried to me; I saw him prisoner;
But then Aufidius was within my view,
And wrath o'erwhelmed my pity: I request you
To give my poor host freedom.

O, well begg'd!
Were he the butcher of my son, he should
Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus.

Marcius, his name?

By Jupiter, forgot: —
I am weary; yea, my memory is tir'd. —
Have we no wine here?

Go we to our tent:
The blood upon your visage dries; 'tis time
It should be look'd to: come.

The town is ta'en.

'Twill be delivered back on good condition.

Condition!
I would I were a Roman; for I cannot,
Being a Volsce, be that I am. – Condition?
What good condition can a treaty find
I' the part that is at mercy? – Five times, Marcius,
I have fought with thee; so often hast thou beat me;
And wouldst do so, I think, should we encounter
As often as we eat. – By the elements,
If e'er again I meet him beard to beard,
He's mine or I am his: mine emulation
Hath not that honour in't it had; for where
I thought to crush him in an equal force, —
True sword to sword, – I'll potch at him some way,
Or wrath or craft may get him.

He's the devil.

Bolder, though not so subtle. My valour's poisoned
With only suffering stain by him; for him
Shall fly out of itself: nor sleep nor sanctuary,
Being naked, sick; nor fane nor Capitol,
The prayers of priests nor times of sacrifice,
Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up
Their rotten privilege and custom 'gainst
My hate to Marcius: where I find him, were it
At home, upon my brother's guard, even there,
Against the hospitable canon, would I
Wash my fierce hand in's heart. Go you to the city;
Learn how 'tis held; and what they are that must
Be hostages for Rome.

Will not you go?

I am attended at the cypress grove: I pray you, —
'Tis south the city mills, – bring me word thither
How the world goes, that to the pace of it
I may spur on my journey.

I shall, sir.

The augurer tells me we shall have news tonight.

Good or bad?

Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not
Marcius.

Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.

Pray you, who does the wolf love?

The lamb.

Ay, to devour him, as the hungry plebeians would the noble
Marcius.

He's a lamb indeed, that baas like a bear.

MENENIUS. He's a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two are old men: tell me one thing that I shall ask you.

Well, sir.
MENENIUS. In what enormity is Marcius poor in, that you two have not in abundance?

He's poor in no one fault, but stored with all.