The Tragedy of Coriolanus. Уильям Шекспир

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      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

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