By Jupiter, forget:—
I am weary; yea, my memory is tir'd.
Have we no wine here?
CORIOLANUS.
Come I too late?...
O! let me clip you
In arms as sound as when I woo'd; in heart
As merry as when our nuptial day was done.
CORIOLANUS.
I thank you, general;
But cannot make my heart consent to take
A bribe to pay my sword....
No more, I say;
For that I have not wash'd my nose that bled,
Or foil'd some debile wretch,—you shout me forth
In acclamations hyperbolical;
As if I loved my little should be dieted
In praises sauc'd with lies.