Oʻlder in practice, a'bler than yours'elf,
To make condi'tions.

Bru., Go' to; you are not, Casʼsius.
Cas. 'I am'.
Bru. I say you ar'e not.

Cas. Urge me no m'ore, I shall forget myself
Have mind upon your h'ealth-temp't me, no far'ther.

Bru. Awa'y, sligʻht man !
Cas. Is't poʻssible ?

Bru. Hear me, for I will sp'eak.
Must I give w'ay and roo'm/ to your rash ch'oler ?
Shall I be frigʻhted/ when a mad'man stares ?

Cas. O go'ds ! ye gʻods ! must I endu're all thios ?

Bru. All th’is ? a'y/ mor'e.-Fr'et/ till your proud heart break! Go', tell your slaves how ch'oleric-you-are, And make your boʻndmen trem'ble. Must I bu’dge ? Must I obse'rve you ? must I stand and crou'ch/ Under your testy' h'umour ? By the gʻods, You shall dige'st the venom of

you sple'en, Though it do sp'lit you : fo'r/ from this day foʻrth I'll use you for my mir'th, ye'a for my lauřghter,

, When you are wa'spish.

Cas. Is' it come to th'is ?

Bru. You sa'y, yo'u are a better soʻldier :
Let it appea'r so; make your vaunting tru'e,
And it shall pleas'e-me we'll. For mine own p'art,
I shall be glad to lea'rn of n'oble me'n.

Cas. You wr'ong me e'very-way—you wroʻng me, Br’utus ;
I said an el'der soldier, not a be°tter;
Did I

say

better? Bru. If you di'd, I car'e not. Cas. When Cæsar li'ved, h'e durst not thus have mo'ved me. Bru. Pea'ce, peace; you durst not so have tempted hiom. Cas. I'durst'-not! Bru. No'. Cas. Wha't ? durst not tem'pt him ? Bru. For your li°fe/ you dur'st-not.

Cas. Do not presume too muc'h upon my love ; I m'ay-do/ what I shall be so'rry-for.

Bru. You ha've done th’at/ you should be so'rry for. There is no terror, Cas'sius, in your

thr'eats; Fo'r/ I am armed so strong in hoʻnesty, That they pass by'-me/ as the idle win'd,

Pronounced with conscious su

and

Which I respe'ct-not. I did send'-to-you
For certain sums of go'ld, which you den’ied-me;
(For I can raise no money by vi le-means.)
I had rather c'oin

my

hefart,
And dro'p my bloạod/ for dra'chmas, than to wri'ng/
From the hard hands of pea'sants/ their vile tr'ash
By an'y indirec'tion. I did send
To you for go'ld/ to pay my leégions,
Which

you

den'ied me: was that done like Caossius ?
Should I have answered Caius Cassius s'o;
When Marcus Bru'tus/ grows so cov'etous,
To lock such ra’scal coun`ters/ from hi's fri'ends,
Be ready, go'ds, (with a'll your thunder-bolts!) periority
Dash'-him to pieces !

dignity. Cas. I denied

you

no't. Bru. You di'd.

Cas. I did not he' was but a fo'ol That brought my an'swer ba'ck.- Brut’us/ hath rived my heart. A fri'end/ should bear a friend's infir’mities, But Brîutus/ makes mi`ne/ greaster than they are. Bru. I do not

— till you prac'tise them on me. Cas. You lo've me 'not. (Interrogatively.) Bru. I do not like

your

fa'ults. Cas. A frie'ndly-eye/ could never see such fa'ults.

Bru. A fla'tterer's-would-not, though they do appear
As huge as high Oly'mpus.

Cas. Come, A'ntony, and young Octavius, co'me !
Revenge yourselves alo'ne on Cassius,
Fo'r/ Cas'sius is a-we'ary of the wo'rld;
Ha'ted/ by one he lov'es; bra'ved/ by his brother;
Cheʼcked) as a bon'dman; all his fa'ults obser'ved, *

S'et in a not'e-book, lea’rned and con'ned by ro'te,
To cast into my te'eth. O! I could weep
My spi'rit/ from mine e'yes ! - There is my dag'ger,
And heore/ my naked bre'ast- withi'n, a hea'rt
Dearer than Plu'tus' min'e, ric

her/ than goʻld !
If thou needest a Rooman's, take it for'th.
I', that denied thee gold, will give my heʻart :
Strike/ as thou didst at Ca'sar ; for I kn'ow,
When thou didst hate hi'm woʻrst, thou lo'vedst him beʻtter/
Than e'ver thou lovedst Caossius.

Bru. Sheathe your da'gger :
Be angry when you wi'll, it shall ha've scope;
D'o what you wi’ll, dishoʻnour/ shall be hu'mour.
O Ca’ssius ! you are yo‘ked with a laʼmb,
That carries an'ger/ as the flint bears fire',
Wh'ich, mu'ch-enforced, shows a hasty spa'rk,
And straight is c'old again'.

Cas. Hath Cassius lived,
To be but mir'th and laughter to his Br’utus,
When gri'ef, and blood ill-tem'pered, vex'eth-him?

Bru. When I spoke thʼat, I was ill-te'mpered too'.
Cas. Do

you confe'ss so mu'ch ? Gi've me your ha’nd.
Bru. And my he art too'.
Cas. O Br’utus !-
Bru. What's the ma'tter ?

Cas. Have you not love enough/ to be’ar-with-me, When that rash humour/ which my mother ga've me Ma'kes me forgʻetful ?

Bru. Yes', Cas'sius, and from hencef'orth, (When you are over-ea'rnest/ Br’utus,) He'll think your mother chi'des, and lea've-you so'.

with your

CORIOLANUS AND TULLUS AUFIDIUS.

SHAKSPEARE.
Cor. I PLAINLY, T'ullus, by your lo'oks/ perc'eive
You disapprove-my-conduct.

Auf. I mean not to as sail thee/ with the cla'mour
Of loud repro'aches and the war of w'ords;
B'ut (pr'ide apa'rt, and a'll/ that can pervert

ti'mel my

The ligʻht of steady r'eason) he're to make
A c'andid, fa'ir-proposal.

Cor. Spesak, I hear thee.
Auf. I need not tell thee, that I have perfo'rmed
My utmost pr'omise. Th’ou hast been prote'cted ;
Hast had thy am'plest, most ambi'tious-wish;
Thy wounded pr'ide/ is healed, thy dear reven'ge/
Completely sa'ted ; a'nd (to cro'wn thy foʻrtune,)
At the sa'me-time, thy peace with R'ome/ rest'ored.
Thou art no more a Voʻlscian, but a Roman:
Return, retur'n ; thy du ty/ calls up'on-thee
Still to protect-the-city/ thou hast sa'ved ;
It still

may be in danger/ from our a'rms :
Reti're: I will take care thou m'ay'st/ with sa'fety.

Cor. With s'afety ?- Do'st think Coriola'nus
Will stoop to th°ee/ for s'afety? - No: m^y saf'eguard
Is in my'self, a boʻsom/ vo'id of blame
O', 'tis an act of coʻwardice and ba'seness,
To s'eize the
very

hands are f'ettered/
By the strong chain of foʻrmer-obligation,
(The s'afe, su're-moment/ to in'sult me.) — Goods !
Wer'e I now fr’ee, (as on that day I w'as
When at Corioli I tamed your p'ride)
Thi's had not be'en.

Auf. Thou speakest the tr’uth: it had not.
O, for that time aga'in ! Propitious god's,
If

you will bl’ess-me, gra'nt it! Know, for th'at,
For th‘at/ deoar-purpose, I have now prop'osed
Thou should’st retu'rn: I pray thee, Ma'rcius, d'o it;
And we shall meet aga'in/ on no'bler-terms.

Cor. Till I have cleared my hoʻnour/ in your co‘uncil,
And proved before them a'll, to thy conf'usion,
The fal'sehood of thy charge; as soon in battle
Would I fly befo're thee, and ho'wl for meʼrcy,
As quit the sta'tion/ they've assi'gned-me he're.

Auf. Thou canst not hope acquittal/ from the Voʻlscians.

Cor. I d'o:— N'ay, m'ore, expect their approbʼation,
Their thaînks. I will obtain you su'ch a p'eace
As y'e* durst/ nev'er-a’sk; a perfect u’nion
Of your whole na'tion, with imperial Ro'me,

In all her pri'vileges, all her rig'hts;
By the just g'ods, I wi'll.—Wha't would'st thou mo're ?

Auf. What would I moore, proud Rosman ? Th'is I wo'uld-
Fire the cursed fo'rest, where these Roman w'olves
Ha'unt and inf'est their noʻbler-neighbours/ rou'nd them;
Extirpate from the bosom of this la'nd
A fa'lse, perfid'ious-people, wh'o (beneath
The ma'sk of fre'edom) are a combination
Against the li'berty of hu'man-kind
The genuine seed of ou’tlaws and of ro'bbers.

Cor. The se'ed of gods.— 'Tis not for th’ee, vain boʻaster,
'Tis not for such as thoịu,—(so often spared
By her victorious sw'ord) to speak of Ro'me,
But with resp'ect, and aʼwful venera'tion.-
Whate'er her blo'ts, whate'er her giddy fa'ctions,
There is more v'irtue/ in one single-year
Of R'oman-story, than your Vo'lscian-annals
Can b'oast/ through all their cre'eping, daîrk-duration.

Auf. I thank thy rage :- This full displa’ys the tra'itor.
Cor. Traʼitor'!How no'w ?
Auf. Ay, traitor, Ma'rcius.
Cor. Marcius!
Auf. A'y, Mar'cius, C'aius Ma'rcius: Dost thou think
I'll grace thee with that r'obbery, thy sto'len-name,
Coriolanus, in Co'rioli ?
Yo'u/ lor'ds, and he'ads of the state, perfidiously
He has betra’yed your bu'siness, and gi'ven-up,
(For certain drops of s'alt,) your c'ity Ro'me,-
I say, yoʻur city, — to his wi'fe and mo'ther ;
Breaking his oath and r'esolution, like
A tw'ist of rot'ten-silk ; never admitting
Cou'nsel of the w'ar: b’ut/ at his nurse's te’ars/
He wh’ined and roared-away, your v'ictory;
That/ pa'ges blu'shed-at-him, and me'n of he’art
Looked wo'ndering e'ach at o'ther.

Cor. He'arest thou, M'ars ?
Auf. Na'me not the go'd, thou b'oy of teʻars.
Cor. Mea'sureless-liar, he has made my

heart
Too gr’eat/ for what cont'ains it.—Booy !—f'alse sla‘ve !
Cu't me/ to pieces, Vo'lsces : me'n and l'ads,
Stain all your e'dges on'-me.-Booy!—Sir!
have writ

your annals true, 'tis theore,

If you

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