CORIOLANUS.
I will go wash;
And when my face is fair, you shall perceive
Whether I blush or no. Howbeit, I thank you.
I mean to stride your steed and at all times
To undercrest your good addition
To th’ fairness of my power.
COMINIUS.
So, to our tent,
Where, ere we do repose us, we will write
To Rome of our success.—You, Titus Lartius,
Must to Corioles back. Send us to Rome
The best, with whom we may articulate
For their own good and ours.
LARTIUS.
I shall, my lord.
CORIOLANUS.
The gods begin to mock me. I, that now
Refused most princely gifts, am bound to beg
Of my lord general.
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.