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brave Titus: |
They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts, |
Which makes me sweat with wrath. Come on, my fellows: |
He that retires I'll take him for a Volsce, |
And he shall feel mine edge. |
MARCIUS: |
All the contagion of the south light on you, |
You shames of Rome! you herd of--Boils and plagues |
Plaster you o'er, that you may be abhorr'd |
Further than seen and one infect another |
Against the wind a mile! You souls of geese, |
That bear the shapes of men, how have you run |
From slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and hell! |
All hurt behind; backs red, and faces pale |
With flight and agued fear! Mend and charge home, |
Or, by the fires of heaven, I'll leave the foe |
And make my wars on you: look to't: come on; |
If you'll stand fast, we'll beat them to their wives, |
As they us to our trenches followed. |
So, now the gates are ope: now prove good seconds: |
'Tis for the followers fortune widens them, |
Not for the fliers: mark me, and do the like. |
First Soldier: |
Fool-hardiness; not I. |
Second Soldier: |
Nor I. |
First Soldier: |
See, they have shut him in. |
All: |
To the pot, I warrant him. |
LARTIUS: |
What is become of Marcius? |
All: |
Slain, sir, doubtless. |
First Soldier: |
Following the fliers at the very heels, |
With them he enters; who, upon the sudden, |
Clapp'd to their gates: he is himself alone, |
To answer all the city. |
LARTIUS: |
O noble fellow! |
Who sensibly outdares his senseless sword, |
And, when it bows, stands up. Thou art left, Marcius: |
A carbuncle entire, as big as thou art, |
Were not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a soldier |
Even to Cato's wish, not fierce and terrible |
Only in strokes; but, with thy grim looks and |
The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds, |
Thou madst thine enemies shake, as if the world |
Were feverous and did tremble. |
First Soldier: |
Look, sir. |
LARTIUS: |
O,'tis Marcius! |
Let's fetch him off, or make remain alike. |
First Roman: |
This will I carry to Rome. |
Second Roman: |
And I this. |
Third Roman: |
A murrain on't! I took this for silver. |
MARCIUS: |
See here these movers that do prize their hours |
At a crack'd drachm! Cushions, leaden spoons, |
Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would |
Bury with those that wore them, these base slaves, |
Ere yet the fight be done, pack up: down with them! |
And hark, what noise the general makes! To him! |
There is the man of my soul's hate, Aufidius, |
Piercing our Romans: then, valiant Titus, take |
Convenient numbers to make good the city; |
Whilst I, with those that have the spirit, will haste |
To help Cominius. |
LARTIUS: |
Worthy sir, thou bleed'st; |
Thy exercise hath been too violent for |
A second course of fight. |
MARCIUS: |
Sir, praise me not; |
My work hath yet not warm'd me: fare you well: |
The blood I drop is rather physical |
Than dangerous to me: to Aufidius thus |
I will appear, and fight. |
Subsets and Splits