The strongest nerves and small inferior veins
From me receive that natural competency
Whereby they live: and though that all at once
You, my good friends,’—this says the belly,—mark me,—
FIRST CITIZEN.
Ay, sir; well, well.
MENENIUS.
‘Though all at once cannot
See what I do deliver out to each,
Yet I can make my audit up, that all
From me do back receive the flour of all,
And leave me but the bran.’ What say you to’t?
FIRST CITIZEN.
It was an answer: how apply you this?
MENENIUS.
The senators of Rome are this good belly,
And you the mutinous members; for, examine
Their counsels and their cares; digest things rightly
Touching the weal o’ the common; you shall find
No public benefit which you receive
But it proceeds or comes from them to you,
And no way from yourselves.—What do you think,
You, the great toe of this assembly?
FIRST CITIZEN.
I the great toe? why the great toe?
MENENIUS.
For that, being one o’ the lowest, basest, poorest,
Of this most wise rebellion, thou go’st foremost:
Thou rascal, that art worst in blood to run,
Lead’st first to win some vantage.—
But make you ready your stiff bats and clubs:
Rome and her rats are at the point of battle;
The one side must have bale.—
[Enter CAIUS MARCIUS.]
Hail, noble Marcius!
MARCIUS.
Thanks.—What’s the matter, you dissentious rogues
That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion,
Make yourselves scabs?
FIRST CITIZEN.
We have ever your good word.
MARCIUS.
He that will give good words to thee will flatter
Beneath abhorring.—What would you have, you curs,
That like nor peace nor war? The one affrights you,
The other makes you proud. He that trusts to you,
Where he should find you lions, finds you hares;
Where foxes, geese: you are no surer, no,
Than is the coal of fire upon the ic,
Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is
To make him worthy whose offence subdues him,
And curse that justice did it. Who deserves greatness
Deserves your hate; and your affections are
A sick man’s appetite, who desires most that
Which would increase his evil. He that depends
Upon your favours swims with fins of lead,
And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust ye!
With every minute you do change a mind;
And call him noble that was now your hate,
Him vile that was your garland. What’s the matter,
That in these several places of the city
You cry against the noble senate, who,
Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else
Would feed on one another?—What’s their seeking?
MENENIUS.
For corn at their own rates; whereof they say
The city is well stor’d.
MARCIUS.
Hang ‘em! They say!
They’ll sit by th’ fire and presume to know
What’s done i’ the Capitol; who’s like to rise,
Who thrives and who declines; side factions, and give out
Conjectural marriages; making parties strong,
And feebling such as stand not in their liking
Below their cobbled shoes. They say there’s grain enough!
Would the nobility lay aside their ruth
And let me use my sword, I’d make a quarry
With thousands of these quarter’d slaves, as high
As I could pick my lance.
MENENIUS.
Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded;
For though abundantly they lack discretion,
Yet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech you,
What says the other troop?
MARCIUS.
They are dissolved: hang ‘em!
They said they were an-hungry; sigh’d forth proverbs,—
That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat,
That meat was made for mouths, that the gods sent not
Corn for the rich men only:—with these shreds
They vented their complainings; which being answer’d,
And a petition granted them,—a strange one,
To break the heart of generosity,
And make bold power look pale,—they threw their caps
As they would hang them on the horns o’ the moon,
Shouting their emulation.
MENENIUS.
What is granted them?
MARCIUS.
Five tribunes, to defend their vulgar wisdoms,
Of their own choice: one’s Junius Brutus,
Sicinius Velutus, and I know not.—‘Sdeath!
The rabble should have first unroof’d the city
Ere so prevail’d with me: it will in time
Win upon power, and throw forth greater themes
For insurrection’s arguing.
MENENIUS.
This is strange.
MARCIUS.
Go get you home, you fragments!
[Enter a MESSENGER, hastily.]
MESSENGER.
Where’s Caius Marcius?
MARCIUS.
Here: what’s the matter?
MESSENGER.
The news is, sir, the Volsces are in arms.
MARCIUS.
I am glad on’t: then we shall ha’ means to vent
Our musty superfluity.—See, our best elders.
[Enter COMINIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, and other SENATORS; JUNIUS BRUTUS and SICINIUS VELUTUS.]
FIRST SENATOR.
Marcius, ‘tis true that you have