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.
MARTIUS.
Let him alone.
He did inform the truth. But for our gentlemen,
The common file—a plague! Tribunes for them!—
The mouse ne’er shunned the cat as they did budge
From rascals worse than they.
COMINIUS.
But how prevailed you?
MARTIUS.
Will the time serve to tell? I do not think.
Where is the enemy? Are you lords o’ th’ field?
If not, why cease you till you are so?
COMINIUS.
Martius, we have at disadvantage fought,
And did retire to win our purpose.
MARTIUS.
How lies their battle? Know you on which side
They have placed their men of trust?
COMINIUS.
As I guess, Martius,
Their bands i’ th’ vaward are the Antiates,
Of their best trust; o’er them Aufidius,
Their very heart of hope.