No, I'll not meddle.
Pray you, go to him.
What should I do?
Only make trial what your love can do
For Rome, towards Marcius.
Well, and say that Marcius
Return me, as Cominius is return'd,
Unheard; what then?
But as a discontented
With his unkindness? say't be so?
Yet your good will
must have that thanks from Rome, after the measure
As you intended well.
I'll undertake 't:
I think he'll hear me. Yet, to bite his lip
And hum at good Cominius, much unhearts me.
was not taken well; he had not dined:
The veins unfill'd, our blood is cold, and then
We pout upon the
morning, are unapt
To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff'd
These and these conveyances of our
With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls
Than in our priest-like fasts: therefore I'll watch him
he be dieted to my request,
And then I'll set upon him.
You know the very road into his kindness,
And cannot lose your way.
Good faith, I'll prove him,
Speed how it will. I shall ere long have knowledge
Of my success.
He'll never hear him.
I tell you, he does sit in gold, his eye
Red as 'twould burn Rome; and his injury
The gaoler to his pity. I
kneel'd before him;
'Twas very faintly he said 'Rise;' dismiss'd me
Thus, with his speechless hand: what he
He sent in writing after me; what he would not,
Bound with an oath to yield to his conditions:
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