MENENIUS.
For ’tis a sore upon us
You cannot tent yourself. Begone, beseech you.
COMINIUS.
Come, sir, along with us.
CORIOLANUS.
I would they were barbarians, as they are,
Though in Rome littered, not Romans, as they are not,
Though calved i’ th’ porch o’ th’ Capitol.
MENENIUS.
Begone!
Put not your worthy rage into your tongue.
One time will owe another.
CORIOLANUS.
On fair ground
I could beat forty of them.
MENENIUS.
I could myself
Take up a brace o’ th’ best of them, yea, the two tribunes.
COMINIUS.
But now ’tis odds beyond arithmetic,
And manhood is called foolery when it stands
Against a falling fabric. Will you hence,
Before the tag return, whose rage doth rend
Like interrupted waters, and o’erbear
What they are used to bear?
MENENIUS.
Pray you, begone.
I’ll try whether my old wit be in request
With those that have but little. This must be patched
With cloth of any colour.
COMINIUS.
Nay, come away.
[Exeunt Coriolanus and Cominius.]