MENENIUS.
What’s the news? What’s the news?
COMINIUS.
Your temples burned in their cement, and
Your franchises, whereon you stood, confined
Into an auger’s bore.
MENENIUS.
Pray now, your news?—
You have made fair work, I fear me.—Pray, your news?
If Martius should be joined with Volscians—
COMINIUS.
If?
He is their god; he leads them like a thing
Made by some other deity than Nature,
That shapes man better; and they follow him
Against us brats with no less confidence
Than boys pursuing summer butterflies
Or butchers killing flies.
MENENIUS.
You have made good work,
You and your apron-men, you that stood so much
Upon the voice of occupation and
The breath of garlic eaters!
COMINIUS.
He’ll shake your Rome about your ears.
MENENIUS.
As Hercules did shake down mellow fruit.
You have made fair work.
BRUTUS.
But is this true, sir?
COMINIUS.
Ay, and you’ll look pale
Before you find it other. All the regions
Do smilingly revolt, and who resists
Are mocked for valiant ignorance
And perish constant fools. Who is’t can blame him?
Your enemies and his find something in him.
MENENIUS.
We are all undone unless
The noble man have mercy.