Within Corioli. A street.
[Enter certain Romans, with spoils.]
This will I carry to Rome.
And I this.
A murrain on't! I took this for silver.
[Alarum continues still afar off.]
[Enter MARCIUS and TITUS LARTIUS with a trumpet.]
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!