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.]
PATRICIAN.
This man has marred his fortune.
MENENIUS.
His nature is too noble for the world.
He would not flatter Neptune for his trident
Or Jove for’s power to thunder. His heart’s his mouth;
What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent,
And, being angry, does forget that ever
He heard the name of death.
[A noise within.]
Here’s goodly work.
PATRICIAN.
I would they were abed!
MENENIUS.
I would they were in Tiber! What the vengeance,
Could he not speak ’em fair?