MENENIUS.
Very well.
Could he say less?
COMINIUS.
I offered to awaken his regard
For’s private friends. His answer to me was
He could not stay to pick them in a pile
Of noisome musty chaff. He said ’twas folly
For one poor grain or two to leave unburnt
And still to nose th’ offence.
MENENIUS.
For one poor grain or two!
I am one of those! His mother, wife, his child,
And this brave fellow too, we are the grains;
You are the musty chaff, and you are smelt
Above the moon. We must be burnt for you.
SICINIUS.
Nay, pray, be patient. If you refuse your aid
In this so-never-needed help, yet do not
Upbraid’s with our distress. But sure, if you
Would be your country’s pleader, your good tongue,
More than the instant army we can make,
Might stop our countryman.
MENENIUS.
No, I’ll not meddle.
SICINIUS.
Pray you, go to him.
MENENIUS.
What should I do?
BRUTUS.
Only make trial what your love can do
For Rome, towards Martius.
MENENIUS.
Well, and say that Martius
Return me, as Cominius is returned, unheard,
What then? But as a discontented friend,
Grief-shot with his unkindness? Say’t be so?
SICINIUS.
Yet your good will
Must have that thanks from Rome after the measure
As you intended well.