Bru. But since he hath seru'd well for Rome

Corio. What do you prate of Seruice

Brut. I talke of that, that know it

Corio. You? Mene. Is this the promise that you made your mother

Com. Know, I pray you

Corio. Ile know no further: Let them pronounce the steepe Tarpeian death, Vagabond exile, Fleaing, pent to linger But with a graine a day, I would not buy Their mercie, at the price of one faire word, Nor checke my Courage for what they can giue, To haue't with saying, Good morrow

Sicin. For that he ha's (As much as in him lies) from time to time Enui'd against the people; seeking meanes To plucke away their power: as now at last, Giuen Hostile strokes, and that not in the presence Of dreaded Iustice, but on the Ministers That doth distribute it. In the name a'th' people, And in the power of vs the Tribunes, wee (Eu'n from this instant) banish him our Citie In perill of precipitation From off the Rocke Tarpeian, neuer more To enter our Rome gates. I'th' Peoples name, I say it shall bee so

All. It shall be so, it shall be so: let him away: Hee's banish'd, and it shall be so

Com. Heare me my Masters, and my common friends

Sicin. He's sentenc'd: No more hearing

Com. Let me speake: I haue bene Consull, and can shew from Rome Her Enemies markes vpon me. I do loue My Countries good, with a respect more tender, More holy, and profound, then mine owne life, My deere Wiues estimate, her wombes encrease, And treasure of my Loynes: then if I would Speake that

Sicin. We know your drift. Speake what? Bru. There's no more to be said, but he is banish'd As Enemy to the people, and his Countrey. It shall bee so

All. It shall be so, it shall be so

Corio. You common cry of Curs, whose breath I hate, As reeke a'th' rotten Fennes: whose Loues I prize, As the dead Carkasses of vnburied men, That do corrupt my Ayre: I banish you, And heere remaine with your vncertaintie. Let euery feeble Rumor shake your hearts: Your Enemies, with nodding of their Plumes Fan you into dispaire: Haue the power still To banish your Defenders, till at length Your ignorance (which findes not till it feeles, Making but reseruation of your selues, Still your owne Foes) deliuer you As most abated Captiues, to some Nation That wonne you without blowes, despising For you the City. Thus I turne my backe; There is a world elsewhere.

Exeunt. Coriolanus, Cominius, with Cumalijs. They all shout, and throw vp their Caps.

Edile. The peoples Enemy is gone, is gone

All. Our enemy is banish'd, he is gone: Hoo, oo

Sicin. Go see him out at Gates, and follow him As he hath follow'd you, with all despight Giue him deseru'd vexation. Let a guard Attend vs through the City

All. Come, come, lets see him out at gates, come: The Gods preserue our Noble Tribunes, come.


William Shakespeare
Classic Literature Library

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