Cor. Pray be content. Mother I am going to the market place, Chide me no more. I'll mountebank their loves, Cog their hearts from them, and come back beloved Of all the trades in Rome.—[That he will—] Look I am going. Commend me to my wife. I'll return Consul [—That he will—] Or never trust to what my tongue can do, I' the way of flattery further.
Vol. Do your will. [Exit.]
Com. Away, the tribunes do attend you: arm yourself
To answer mildly; for they are prepared
With accusations as I hear more strong
Than are upon you yet.
Cor. The word is mildly: Pray you let us go,
Let them accuse me by invention, I
Will answer in mine honor.
Men. Ay, but mildly.
Cor. Well, mildly be it then, mildly.
[The Forum. Enter Coriolanus and his party.]
Tribune. Well, here he comes.
Men. Calmly, I do beseech you.
Cor. Ay, as an ostler, that for the poorest piece
Will bear the knave by the volume.
The honoured gods
Keep Rome in safety, and the CHAIRS of justice
Supplied with WORTHY MEN; plant LOVE among us.
Throng OUR LARGE TEMPLES with the shows of PEACE,
And NOT our STREETS with WAR.