Enter Martius, bloody.
COMINIUS.
Who’s yonder,
That does appear as he were flayed? O gods,
He has the stamp of Martius, and I have
Before-time seen him thus.
MARTIUS.
Come I too late?
COMINIUS.
The shepherd knows not thunder from a tabor
More than I know the sound of Martius’ tongue
From every meaner man.
MARTIUS.
Come I too late?
COMINIUS.
Ay, if you come not in the blood of others,
But mantled in your own.
MARTIUS.
O, let me clip you
In arms as sound as when I wooed, in heart
As merry as when our nuptial day was done
And tapers burned to bedward!
COMINIUS.
Flower of warriors, how is’t with Titus Lartius?
MARTIUS.
As with a man busied about decrees,
Condemning some to death and some to exile;
Ransoming him or pitying, threat’ning the other;
Holding Corioles in the name of Rome
Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash,
To let him slip at will.
COMINIUS.
Where is that slave
Which told me they had beat you to your trenches?
Where’s he? Call him hither.