The Roman Camp.
 Flourish. Alarum. A retreat is sounded.
 Enter at one door COMINIUS, with the ROMANS;
 at another door MARTIUS, with his arm in a scarf.

Cominius	If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work,
	Thou'lt not believe thy deeds; but I'll report it,
	Where Senators shall mingle tears with smiles,
	Where great patricians shall attend and shrug,
	I'th' 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 cam'st 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-

Martius							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 vouched,
	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.

Martius	I have some wounds upon me, and they smart
	To hear themselves remembered.

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.

Martius							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 'Martius! Martius!',
     cast up their caps and lances. COMINIUS and LARTIUS stand bare.

	May these same instruments, which you profane,
	Never sound more. When drums and trumpets shall
	I'th' 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 an overture for th' wars.
	No more, I say; for that I have not washed
	My nose that bled, or foiled 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 Martius
	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 Corioles, call him,
	With all th' applause and clamour of the host,
	Martius Caius Coriolanus. Bear th' addition
	Nobly ever.
							  [Flourish. Trumpets sound, and drums.

All	Martius Caius 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 th' 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 Corioles 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 Corioles,
	At a poor man's house: he used me kindly.
	He cried to me; I saw him prisoner.
	But then Aufidius was within my view,
	And wrath o'erwhelmed my pity. I request you
	To give my poor host freedom.

Cominius										O, well begged!
	Were he the butcher of my son, he should
	Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus.

Lartius	Martius, 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 looked to: Come.
												[Exeunt.
