SCENE IX. The Roman camp. The Tragedy of Coriolanus  Shakespeare homepage  |  Coriolanus  | Act 1, Scene 9 

 Previous scene  |  Next scene  SCENE IX. The Roman camp. 

 Flourish. Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Flourish.  Enter, from one side, COMINIUS with the Romans; from the other side, MARCIUS, with his arm in a scarf  COMINIUS  If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work, 

 Thou'ldst not believe thy deeds: but I'll report it 

 Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles, 

 Where great patricians shall attend and shrug, 

 I' the end admire, where ladies shall be frighted, 

 And, gladly quaked, hear more; where the 

 dull tribunes, 

 That, with the fusty plebeians, hate thine honours, 

 Shall say against their hearts 'We thank the gods 

 Our Rome hath such a soldier.' 

 Yet camest thou to a morsel of this feast, 

 Having fully dined before. 



 Enter TITUS LARTIUS, with his power, from the pursuit  LARTIUS  O general, 

 Here is the steed, we the caparison: 

 Hadst thou beheld-- 

 MARCIUS  Pray now, no more: my mother, 

 Who has a charter to extol her blood, 

 When she does praise me grieves me. I have done 

 As you have done; that's what I can; induced 

 As you have been; that's for my country: 

 He that has but effected his good will 

 Hath overta'en mine act. 

 COMINIUS  You shall not be 

 The grave of your deserving; Rome must know 

 The value of her own: 'twere a concealment 

 Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement, 

 To hide your doings; and to silence that, 

 Which, to the spire and top of praises vouch'd, 

 Would seem but modest: therefore, I beseech you 

 In sign of what you are, not to reward 

 What you have done--before our army hear me. 

 MARCIUS  I have some wounds upon me, and they smart 

 To hear themselves remember'd. 

 COMINIUS  Should they not, 

 Well might they fester 'gainst ingratitude, 

 And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses, 

 Whereof we have ta'en good and good store, of all 

 The treasure in this field achieved and city, 

 We render you the tenth, to be ta'en forth, 

 Before the common distribution, at 

 Your only choice. 

 MARCIUS  I thank you, general; 

 But cannot make my heart consent to take 

 A bribe to pay my sword: I do refuse it; 

 And stand upon my common part with those 

 That have beheld the doing. 



 A long flourish. They all cry 'Marcius! Marcius!'  cast up their caps and lances: COMINIUS and LARTIUS stand bare  MARCIUS  May these same instruments, which you profane, 

 Never sound more! when drums and trumpets shall 

 I' the field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be 

 Made all of false-faced soothing! 

 When steel grows soft as the parasite's silk, 

 Let him be made a coverture for the wars! 

 No more, I say! For that I have not wash'd 

 My nose that bled, or foil'd some debile wretch.-- 

 Which, without note, here's many else have done,-- 

 You shout me forth 

 In acclamations hyperbolical; 

 As if I loved my little should be dieted 

 In praises sauced with lies. 

 COMINIUS  Too modest are you; 

 More cruel to your good report than grateful 

 To us that give you truly: by your patience, 

 If 'gainst yourself you be incensed, we'll put you, 

 Like one that means his proper harm, in manacles, 

 Then reason safely with you. Therefore, be it known, 

 As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius 

 Wears this war's garland: in token of the which, 

 My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him, 

 With all his trim belonging; and from this time, 

 For what he did before Corioli, call him, 

 With all the applause and clamour of the host, 

 CAIUS MARCIUS CORIOLANUS! Bear 

 The addition nobly ever! 



 Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums  All  Caius Marcius Coriolanus! 

 CORIOLANUS  I will go wash; 

 And when my face is fair, you shall perceive 

 Whether I blush or no: howbeit, I thank you. 

 I mean to stride your steed, and at all times 

 To undercrest your good addition 

 To the fairness of my power. 

 COMINIUS  So, to our tent; 

 Where, ere we do repose us, we will write 

 To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius, 

 Must to Corioli back: send us to Rome 

 The best, with whom we may articulate, 

 For their own good and ours. 

 LARTIUS  I shall, my lord. 

 CORIOLANUS  The gods begin to mock me. I, that now 

 Refused most princely gifts, am bound to beg 

 Of my lord general. 

 COMINIUS  Take't; 'tis yours. What is't? 

 CORIOLANUS  I sometime lay here in Corioli 

 At a poor man's house; he used me kindly: 

 He cried to me; I saw him prisoner; 

 But then Aufidius was with in my view, 

 And wrath o'erwhelm'd my pity: I request you 

 To give my poor host freedom. 

 COMINIUS  O, well begg'd! 

 Were he the butcher of my son, he should 

 Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus. 

 LARTIUS  Marcius, his name? 

 CORIOLANUS  By Jupiter! forgot. 

 I am weary; yea, my memory is tired. 

 Have we no wine here? 

 COMINIUS  Go we to our tent: 

 The blood upon your visage dries; 'tis time 

 It should be look'd to: come. 



 Exeunt  Shakespeare homepage  |  Coriolanus  | Act 1, Scene 9 

 Previous scene  |  Next scene 