Act 1 - Scene 9
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
If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work,
Thou'ldst not believe thy deeds: but I'll report it
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
That, with the fusty plebeians,
hate thine honours,
Shall say against their hearts 'We thank the gods
Our Rome hath such a soldier.'
camest thou to a morsel of this feast,
Having fully dined before.
Enter TITUS LARTIUS, with his power, from the pursuit
Here is the steed, we the caparison:
Hadst thou beheld
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:
that has but effected his good will
Hath overta'en mine act.
You shall not be
The grave of your deserving; Rome must know
The value of her own: 'twere a concealment
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
What you have donebefore our army hear me.
I have some wounds upon me, and they smart
To hear themselves remember'd.
Should they not,
Well might they fester 'gainst ingratitude,
And tent themselves with death. Of all the
Whereof we have ta'en good and good store, of all
The treasure in this field achieved and city,
render you the tenth, to be ta'en forth,
Before the common distribution, at
Your only choice.
I thank you, general;
But cannot make my heart consent to take
A bribe to pay my sword: I do refuse it;
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
May these same instruments, which you profane,
Never sound more! when drums and trumpets shall
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
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