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LARTIUS:
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Now the fair goddess, Fortune,
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Fall deep in love with thee; and her great charms
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Misguide thy opposers' swords! Bold gentleman,
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Prosperity be thy page!
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MARCIUS:
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Thy friend no less
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Than those she placeth highest! So, farewell.
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LARTIUS:
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Thou worthiest Marcius!
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Go, sound thy trumpet in the market-place;
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Call thither all the officers o' the town,
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Where they shall know our mind: away!
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COMINIUS:
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Breathe you, my friends: well fought;
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we are come off
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Like Romans, neither foolish in our stands,
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Nor cowardly in retire: believe me, sirs,
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We shall be charged again. Whiles we have struck,
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By interims and conveying gusts we have heard
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The charges of our friends. Ye Roman gods!
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Lead their successes as we wish our own,
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That both our powers, with smiling
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fronts encountering,
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May give you thankful sacrifice.
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Thy news?
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Messenger:
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The citizens of Corioli have issued,
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And given to Lartius and to Marcius battle:
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I saw our party to their trenches driven,
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And then I came away.
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COMINIUS:
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Though thou speak'st truth,
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Methinks thou speak'st not well.
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How long is't since?
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Messenger:
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Above an hour, my lord.
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COMINIUS:
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'Tis not a mile; briefly we heard their drums:
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How couldst thou in a mile confound an hour,
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And bring thy news so late?
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Messenger:
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Spies of the Volsces
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Held me in chase, that I was forced to wheel
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Three or four miles about, else had I, sir,
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Half an hour since brought my report.
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COMINIUS:
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Who's yonder,
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That does appear as he were flay'd? O gods
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He has the stamp of Marcius; and I have
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Before-time seen him thus.
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MARCIUS:
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COMINIUS:
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The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabour
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More than I know the sound of Marcius' tongue
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From every meaner man.
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MARCIUS:
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Come I too late?
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COMINIUS:
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Ay, if you come not in the blood of others,
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But mantled in your own.
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MARCIUS:
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O, let me clip ye
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In arms as sound as when I woo'd, in heart
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As merry as when our nuptial day was done,
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And tapers burn'd to bedward!
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COMINIUS:
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Flower of warriors,
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How is it with Titus Lartius?
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MARCIUS:
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As with a man busied about decrees:
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Condemning some to death, and some to exile;
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Ransoming him, or pitying, threatening the other;
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Holding Corioli in the name of Rome,
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Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash,
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To let him slip at will.
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COMINIUS:
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Where is that slave
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Which told me they had beat you to your trenches?
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Where is he? call him hither.
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MARCIUS:
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