Cor. Meafurelefs liar, thou haft made my heart
Too great for what contains it. Boy ? O flave !
Pardon me, lords, 'tis the firft time that ever
Pm forc'd to fcold. Your judgments, my grave lords,
Muft give this Cur the Lie ; and his own Notion,
(Who wears my ftripes impreft upon him ; that
Muft bear my beating to his Grave ) fhall join
To thruft the lie unto him.
i Lord. Peace both* and hear me fpeak.
Cor. Cut me to pieces, Volfaans, men and lads,
Stain all your edges in me. Boy ! falfe hound !
If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there,
That, like an eagle in a dove-coat, I
Flutter'd your Volfciam in Corioli.
Alone I did it. Boy !
Auf. Why, noble lords,
Will you be put in mind of his blind fortune,
Which was your fhame, by this unholy braggart j
'Fore your own eyes and ears ?
All Con. Let him die for'r.
All People. Tear him to pieces, do it prefently :
He kill'd my fon, my daughter, kill'd my coufin,
He kill'd my father.
[fThe Croud fpeak promifcuoujly.
2 Lord. Peace, no outrage peace
The man is noble, and his Fame folds in
This Orb o'th' earth ; his laft offences to us
Shall have judicious Hearing. Stand, Aufidius,
And trouble not the peace.
Cor. O that I had him,
WithTix yf)Wf/w's, or more, his tribe,
To ufe my lawful fword
Auf. Infolent villain !
All Con. Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him.
[Tbt confpirators all draw, and kill Marcius,
who/alls^ and Aufidms Jtands on him.
Lords. Hold, hold, hold, hold.
Auf. My noble Matters, hear me fpeak.
1 Lord. O fuUus
2 Lord. Thou haft done a deed, whereat
Valour will weep.
3 Lord. Tread not upon him mafters all, be
Put up your fwords.
Auf. My lords, when you mail know (as in this rage
Provok'd by him, you cannot) the great danger
Which this man's life did owe you, you'll rejoice
That he is thus cut off. Pleafe it your Honours
To call me to your Senate, 1'JJ deliver
Myfelf your loyal fervant, or endure
Your heaviefl cenfure.
1 Lord. Bear from hence his body,
And mourn you for him. Let him be regarded
As the moft noble Coarfe, that ever Herald
Did follow to his urn.
2 Lord. His own impatience
Takes from Aufidius a great part of blame :
Let's make the beft of it.
Auf. My Rage is gone,
And I am ftruck with forrow : take him up :
Help, three o'th* chiefeft foldiers ; I'll be one.
Beat thou the drum, that it fpeak mournfully :
Trail your fteel pikes. Though in this city he
Hath widowed and unchilded many a one,
Which to this hour bewail the injury,
Yet he (hall have a noble memory.
[Exeunt ', hearing the body of Marcius. A dead
End of the Sixth Volume,
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY
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