Martius. I will goe wash: And when my Face is faire, you shall perceiue Whether I blush or no: howbeit, I thanke you, I meane to stride your Steed, and at all times To vnder-crest your good Addition, To th' fairenesse of my power
Com. So, to our Tent: Where ere we doe repose vs, we will write To Rome of our successe: you Titus Lartius Must to Corioles backe, send vs to Rome The best, with whom we may articulate, For their owne good, and ours
Lartius. I shall, my Lord
Martius. The Gods begin to mocke me: I that now refus'd most Princely gifts, Am bound to begge of my Lord Generall
Com. Tak't, 'tis yours: what is't? Martius. I sometime lay here in Corioles, At a poore mans house: he vs'd me kindly, He cry'd to me: I saw him Prisoner: But then Auffidius was within my view, And Wrath o're-whelm'd my pittie: I request you To giue my poore Host freedome
Com. Oh well begg'd: Were he the Butcher of my Sonne, he should Be free, as is the Winde: deliuer him, Titus
Lartius. Martius, his Name
Martius. By Iupiter forgot: I am wearie, yea, my memorie is tyr'd: Haue we no Wine here? Com. Goe we to our Tent: The bloud vpon your Visage dryes, 'tis time It should be lookt too: come.
A flourish. Cornets. Enter Tullus Auffidius bloudie, with two or three Souldiors.
Auffi. The Towne is ta'ne
Sould. 'Twill be deliuer'd backe on good Condition
Auffid. Condition? I would I were a Roman, for I cannot, Being a Volce, be that I am. Condition? What good Condition can a Treatie finde I'th' part that is at mercy? fiue times, Martius, I haue fought with thee; so often hast thou beat me: And would'st doe so, I thinke, should we encounter As often as we eate. By th' Elements, If ere againe I meet him beard to beard, He's mine, or I am his: Mine Emulation Hath not that Honor in't it had: For where I thought to crush him in an equall Force, True Sword to Sword: Ile potche at him some way, Or Wrath, or Craft may get him
Sol. He's the diuell
Auf. Bolder, though not so subtle: my valors poison'd, With onely suff'ring staine by him: for him Shall flye out of it selfe, nor sleepe, nor sanctuary, Being naked, sicke; nor Phane, nor Capitoll, The Prayers of Priests, nor times of Sacrifice: Embarquements all of Fury, shall lift vp Their rotten Priuiledge, and Custome 'gainst My hate to Martius. Where I finde him, were it At home, vpon my Brothers Guard, euen there Against the hospitable Canon, would I Wash my fierce hand in's heart. Go you to th' Citie, Learne how 'tis held, and what they are that must Be Hostages for Rome
Soul. Will not you go? Auf. I am attended at the Cyprus groue. I pray you ('Tis South the City Mils) bring me word thither How the world goes: that to the pace of it I may spurre on my iourney
Soul. I shall sir.