Hence, old goat! Hence, rotten thing, or I shall
Shake thy bones out of thy garments.
.... You speak o' the people,
As if you were a god to punish, not a man
Of their infirmity.
VOLUMNIA.
.... My praises first made thee a soldier....
.... The smiles of knaves
Tent in my cheeks; and school-boy's tears take up
The glasses of my sight! A beggar's tongue
Make motion through my lips; and my arm'd knees,
Who bow'd but in my stirrup, bend like his
That has receiv'd an alms.
.... Yet were there but this single plot to lose,
This mould of Marcius, they to dust should grind it.
And throw it against the wind....
Pray, be content;
Mother, I am going to the market-place;
Chide me no more. I'll mountebank their loves,
Cog their hearts from them, and come home belov'd
Of all the trades in Rome. Look, I am going.
CORIOLANUS.