COMINIUS.
Take’t, ’tis yours. What is’t?
CORIOLANUS.
I sometime lay here in Corioles
At a poor man’s house; he used me kindly.
He cried to me; I saw him prisoner;
But then Aufidius was within my view,
And wrath o’erwhelmed my pity. I request you
To give my poor host freedom.
COMINIUS.
O, well begged!
Were he the butcher of my son, he should
Be free as is the wind.—Deliver him, Titus.
LARTIUS.
Martius, his name?
CORIOLANUS.
By Jupiter, forgot!
I am weary; yea, my memory is tired.
Have we no wine here?
COMINIUS.
Go we to our tent.
The blood upon your visage dries; ’tis time
It should be looked to. Come.
[A flourish of cornets. Exeunt.]
SCENE X. The camp of the Volsces
A flourish. Cornets. Enter Tullus Aufidius, bloody, with two or three soldiers.
AUFIDIUS.
The town is ta’en.