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
Mene. I would they were in Tyber.
What the vengeance, could he not speake 'em faire?
Enter Brutus and Sicinius with the rabble againe.
Sicin. Where is this Viper,
That would depopulate the city, & be euery man himself
Mene. You worthy Tribunes