The Tragedy of Coriolanus. Уильям Шекспир

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      For corn at their own rates; whereof they say

      The city is well stor'd.

      Hang 'em! They say!

      They'll sit by th' fire and presume to know

      What's done i' the Capitol; who's like to rise,

      Who thrives and who declines; side factions, and give out

      Conjectural marriages; making parties strong,

      And feebling such as stand not in their liking

      Below their cobbled shoes. They say there's grain enough!

      Would the nobility lay aside their ruth

      And let me use my sword, I'd make a quarry

      With thousands of these quarter'd slaves, as high

      As I could pick my lance.

      Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded;

      For though abundantly they lack discretion,

      Yet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech you,

      What says the other troop?

      They are dissolved: hang 'em!

      They said they were an-hungry; sigh'd forth proverbs, —

      That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat,

      That meat was made for mouths, that the gods sent not

      Corn for the rich men only: – with these shreds

      They vented their complainings; which being answer'd,

      And a petition granted them, – a strange one,

      To break the heart of generosity,

      And make bold power look pale, – they threw their caps

      As they would hang them on the horns o' the moon,

      Shouting their emulation.

      What is granted them?

      Five tribunes, to defend their vulgar wisdoms,

      Of their own choice: one's Junius Brutus,

      Sicinius Velutus, and I know not. – 'Sdeath!

      The rabble should have first unroof'd the city

      Ere so prevail'd with me: it will in time

      Win upon power, and throw forth greater themes

      For insurrection's arguing.

      This is strange.

      Go get you home, you fragments!

      Where's Caius Marcius?

      Here: what's the matter?

      The news is, sir, the Volsces are in arms.

      I am glad on't: then we shall ha' means to vent

      Our musty superfluity. – See, our best elders.

      Marcius, 'tis true that you have lately told us: —

      The Volsces are in arms.

      They have a leader,

      Tullus Aufidius, that will put you to't.

      I sin in envying his nobility;

      And were I anything but what I am,

      I would wish me only he.

      You have fought together.

      Were half to half the world by the ears, and he

      Upon my party, I'd revolt, to make

      Only my wars with him: he is a lion

      That I am proud to hunt.

      Then, worthy Marcius,

      Attend upon Cominius to these wars.

      It is your former promise.

      Sir, it is;

      And I am constant. – Titus Lartius, thou

      Shalt see me once more strike at Tullus' face.

      What, art thou stiff? stand'st out?

      No, Caius Marcius;

      I'll lean upon one crutch and fight with the other

      Ere stay behind this business.

      O, true bred!

      Your company to the Capitol; where, I know,

      Our greatest friends attend us.

      Lead you on.

      Follow, Cominius; we must follow you;

      Right worthy your priority.

      Noble Marcius!

      Hence to your homes; be gone!

      Nay, let them follow:

      The Volsces have much corn; take these rats thither

      To gnaw their garners. – Worshipful mutineers,

      Your valour puts well forth: pray follow.

      Was ever man so proud as is this Marcius?

      He has no equal.

      When we were chosen tribunes for the people, —

      Mark'd you his lip and eyes?

      Nay, but his taunts!

      Being mov'd, he will not spare to gird the gods.

      Bemock the modest moon.

      The present wars devour him: he is grown

      Too proud to be so valiant.

      Such a nature,

      Tickled with good success, disdains the shadow

      Which he treads on at noon: but I do wonder

      His insolence can brook to be commanded

      Under Cominius.

      Fame, at the which he aims, —

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