Cor. Speak, I hear thee.

Auf. I need not tell thee, that I have performed
My utmost promise. Thou hast been protected,
Hast had thy amplest, most ambitious wish;
Thy wounded pride is healed, thy dear revenge
Completely sated; and to crown thy fortune,
At the same time, thy peace with Rome restored.
Thou art no more a Volscian, but a Roman:
Return, return; thy duty calls upon thee
Still to protect the city thou hast saved;

It still may be in danger from our arms:

Retire: I will take care thou may'st with safety.

Cor. With safety ?—Heavens !—and thinkest thou Coriolanus

Will stoop to thee for safety ?-No! my safeguard

Is in myself, a bosom void of fear.

Oh, 'tis an act of cowardice and baseness,

To seize the very time my hands are fettered
By the strong chain of former obligation,
The safe, sure moment to insult me!-Gods!
Were I now free, as on that day I was
When at Corioli I tamed thy pride-
This had not been!

Auf. Thou speak'st the truth: it had not.
Oh, for that time again! propitious gods,

If you will bless me, grant it! Know, for that-
For that dear purpose-I have now proposed

Thou shouldst return: I pray thee, Marcius, do it!

And we shall meet again on nobler terms.

Cor. "Till I have cleared my honour in your council,
And proved before them all,-to thy confusion,-
The falsehood of thy charge; as soon in battle

I would before thee fly, and howl for mercy,

As quit the station they've assigned me here.

Auf. Thou canst not hope acquittal from the Volscians? Cor. I do :-Nay, more, expect their approbation,

Their thanks. I will obtain them such a peace

As thou durst never ask; a perfect union

Of their whole nation with imperial Rome.

In all her privileges, all her rights;

By the just gods, I will.-What wouldst thou more?

Auf. What would I more, proud Roman? This I would

Fire the curs'd forest, where these Roman wolves

Haunt and infest their nobler neighbours round them;
Extirpate from the bosom of this land

A false, perfidious people, who, beneath
The mask of freedom, are a combination
Against the liberty of human kind—

The genuine seed of outlaws and of robbers.

Cor. The seed of gods!-'Tis not for thee, vain boaster, 'Tis not for such as thou,-so often spared

By her victorious sword,-to speak of Rome,
But with respect and awful veneration.-
Whate er her blots, whate'er her giddy factions,
There is more virtue in one single year

Of Roman story, than your Volscian annals

Can boast through all their creeping, dark duration!

Auf. I thank thy rage:-This full displays the traitor.
Cor. Traitor!-- How now?

Auf. Ay, traitor, Marcius.

Cor. Marcius!

Auf. Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius! Dost thou think I'll grace thee with that robbery, thy stolen name, Coriolanus, in Oorioli?

You lords, and heads o' the state, perfidiously
He has betrayed your business, and given up,
For certain drops of salt, your city Rome,-
I say, your city,-to his wife and mother;
Breaking his oath and resolution, like
A twist of rotten silk; never admitting
Counsel o' the war: but, at his nurse's tears,
He whined and roared away your victory,
That pages blushed at him, and men of heart
Looked wondering at each other.

Cor. Hear'st thou, Mars?

Auf. Name not the god, thou boy of tears.
Cor. Measureless liar! thou hast made
my heart
Too great for what contains it.-Boy!-O slave !—
Cut me to pieces, Volscians; men and lads,
Stain all your edges on me.-Boy!-False hound,
If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there,

That, like an eagle in a dove-cot,

Fluttered your Volscians in Corioli;

Alone I did it :-Boy!

But let us part,

Lest my rash hand should do a hasty deed

My cooler thought forbids.

Auf. I court

The worst thy sword can do; while thou from me

Hast nothing to expect, but sore destruction.

Quit then this hostile camp; once more I tell thee,
Thou art not here one single hour in safety.

Cor. Oh, that I had thee in the field,

With six Aufidiuses, or more,―thy tribe,—
To use my lawful sword!-

VI.-WOLSEY AND CROMWELL.-Shakspeare. Wolsey. Farewell, a long farewell to all my greatness!This is the state of man;-to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; And-when he thinks, good easy man! full surely His greatness is a-ripening-nips his root, And then he falls as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, These many summers in a sea of gloryBut far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me-and now has left me,

Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate you!
I feel my heart new opened: Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on prince's favours!
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin,
More pangs and fears than war or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again!—

Enter CROMWELL.

Wol. Why, how now, Cromwell?

Crom. I have no power to speak, sir.

Wol. What! amazed

At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline? Nay, an' you weep,
I'm fallen indeed.

Crom. How does your grace?

Wol. Why, well;

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.

I know myself now; and I feel within me

A peace above all earthly dignities

A still and quiet conscience.

Crom. I'm glad your grace has made that right use of it.
Wol. I hope I have: I'm able now, methinks,

Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,

To endure more miseries and greater far,

Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer,

What news abroad?

Crom. The heaviest and the worst

Is your displeasure with the king.

Wol. God bless him!

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord Chancellor in your place.

Wol. That's somewhat sudden :

But he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his highness' favour, and do justice

For truth's sake and his conscience', that his bones,
When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings,
May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on them!-
What more?

Crom. That Cranmer is returned with welcome,
Installed Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

Wol. That's news indeed!

Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne,

Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,

This day was viewed in open as his queen,

Going to chapel: and the voice is now

Only about her coronation.

Wol. There was the weight that pulled me down!-O Cromwell! The king has gone beyond me; all my glories,

In that one woman, I have lost for ever:

No sun shall ever usher forth my honours,

Or gild again the noble troops that waited

On my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell;
I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now

To be thy lord and master: Seek the king:

I have told him

What and how true thou art; he will advance thes
Some little memory of me will stir him

(I know his noble nature) not to let

Thy hopeful service perish too :-go, Cromwell!
Crom. Oh, my lord,

Must I then leave you? Must I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master ?—
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord!-
The king shall have my service; but my prayers,
For ever and for ever, shall be yours!

Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.-
Let's dry our eyes :-and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me must more be heard-say then I taught thee-
Say, Wolsey-that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour-
Found thee a way out of his wreck to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it!
Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace

To silence envious tongues. Be just and fear not:
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
Thy God's, and truth's: then, if thou fall'st,
O Cromwell, thou fall'st a blessed martyr!—
Lead me in;

There take an inventory of all I have;

To the last penny-'tis the king's :-my robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, are all

I dare now call mine own.-O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but served my God, with half the zeal
served my king, He would not, in mine age,
Have left me naked to mine enemies!

Crom. Good sir, have patience.

Wol. So I have.-Farewell

The hopes of Court! My hopes in Heaven do dwell.

VII. -SCENE FROM VENICE PRESERVED.

Otway.

UKE, seated, with Senators on each side. PIERRE, in chains; ot Conspirators in chains, near him.]

Pier. You, my lords, and fathers

(As you are pleased to call yourselves) of Venice;
If you sit here to guide the course of justice,
Why these disgraceful chains upon the limbs
That have so often laboured in your service?
Are these the wreaths of triumphs you bestow

On those that bring you conquest home, and honours?
Duke. Go on: you shall be heard, sir.

Pier. Are these the trophies I have deserved for fighting Your battles with confederated powers?

When winds and seas conspired to overthrow you,
And brought the fleets of Spain to your own harbours;
When you, great duke, shrunk trembling in your palace;
Stepped not I forth, and taught your loose Venetians
The task of honour, and the way to greatness?
Raised you from your capitulating fears
To stipulate the terms of sued-for peace?
-And this my recompense! If I'm a traitor,

Produce my charge; or show the wretch that's base
And brave enough to tell me that I am so!
Duke. Know you one Jaffier?

Pier. Yes, and know his virtue.—

His justice, truth, his general worth, and sufferings
From a hard father, taught me first to love him.
Duke. See him brought forth.

Enter JAFFIER (in chains).

Pier. My friend too bound! Nay, then,

Our fate has conquered us, and we must fall.

Why droops the man, whose welfare's so much mine

They're but one thing? These reverend tyrants, Jaffier,
Call us traitors. Art thou one, my brother?

Jaff. To thee I am the falsest, veriest slave,

That e'er betrayed a generous, trusting friend,

And gave up honour to be sure of ruin.

All our fair hopes, which morning was to have crowned,
Has this curs'd tongue o'erthrown.

Pier. So then, all's over:

Venice has lost her freedom, I my life.

No more!

Duke. Say; will you make confession

Of your vile deeds, and trust the senate's mercy?
Pier. Curs'd be your senate, curs'd your constitution!

The curse of growing factions and divisions

Still vex your councils, shake your public safety,
And make the robes of government you wear
Hateful to you, as these vile chains to me!
Duke. Pardon, or death?

Pier. Death! honourable death!
Death's the best thing we ask, or you can give.
No shameful bonds but honourable death!