Com. So, to our tent;
Where, ere we do repose us, we will write[2761]
To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius, 75
Must to Corioli back: send us to Rome
The best, with whom we may articulate
For their own good and ours.
Lart. I shall, my lord.
Cor. The gods begin to mock me. I, that now[2759][2762][2763]
Refused most princely gifts, am bound to beg[2762] 80
Of my lord general.[2762][2764]
Com. Take 't; 'tis yours. What is't?[2764][2765]
Cor. I sometime lay here in Corioli[2759][2764]
At a poor man's house; he used me kindly:[2764][2766]
He cried to me; I saw him prisoner;
But then Aufidius was within my view, 85
And wrath o'erwhelm'd my pity: I request you
To give my poor host freedom.
Com. O, well begg'd!
Were he the butcher of my son, he should
Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus.
Lart. Marcius, his name?
Cor. By Jupiter, forgot:[2759] 90
I am weary; yea, my memory is tired.[2767]
Have we no wine here?
Com. Go we to our tent:
The blood upon your visage dries; 'tis time
It should be look'd to: come. [Exeunt.