Mene. I could my selfe take vp a Brace o'th' best of
them, yea, the two Tribunes
Com. But now 'tis oddes beyond Arithmetick,
And Manhood is call'd Foolerie, when it stands
Against a falling Fabrick. Will you hence,
Before the Tagge returne? whose Rage doth rend
Like interrupted Waters, and o're-beare
What they are vs'd to beare
Mene. Pray you be gone:
Ile trie whether my old Wit be in request
With those that haue but little: this must be patcht
With Cloth of any Colour
Com. Nay, come away.
Exeunt. Coriolanus and Cominius.
Patri. This man ha's marr'd his fortune
Mene. His nature is too noble for the World:
He would not flatter Neptune for his Trident,
Or Ioue, for's power to Thunder: his Heart's his Mouth:
What his Brest forges, that his Tongue must vent,
And being angry, does forget that euer
He heard the Name of Death.
A Noise within.
Here's goodly worke
Patri. I would they were a bed