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LARTIUS: |
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! |
MARCIUS: |
Thy friend no less |
Than those she placeth highest! So, farewell. |
LARTIUS: |
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! |
COMINIUS: |
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 charged again. Whiles we have struck, |
By interims and conveying gusts we have heard |
The charges of our friends. Ye 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? |
Messenger: |
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. |
COMINIUS: |
Though thou speak'st truth, |
Methinks thou speak'st not well. |
How long is't since? |
Messenger: |
Above an hour, my lord. |
COMINIUS: |
'Tis not a mile; briefly we heard their drums: |
How couldst thou in a mile confound an hour, |
And bring thy news so late? |
Messenger: |
Spies of the Volsces |
Held me in chase, that I was forced to wheel |
Three or four miles about, else had I, sir, |
Half an hour since brought my report. |
COMINIUS: |
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. |
MARCIUS: |
COMINIUS: |
The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabour |
More than I know the sound of Marcius' tongue |
From every meaner man. |
MARCIUS: |
Come I too late? |
COMINIUS: |
Ay, if you come not in the blood of others, |
But mantled in your own. |
MARCIUS: |
O, let me clip ye |
In arms as sound as when I woo'd, in heart |
As merry as when our nuptial day was done, |
And tapers burn'd to bedward! |
COMINIUS: |
Flower of warriors, |
How is it with Titus Lartius? |
MARCIUS: |
As with a man busied about decrees: |
Condemning some to death, and some to exile; |
Ransoming him, or pitying, threatening the other; |
Holding Corioli in the name of Rome, |
Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash, |
To let him slip at will. |
COMINIUS: |
Where is that slave |
Which told me they had beat you to your trenches? |
Where is he? call him hither. |
MARCIUS: |
Subsets and Splits