Be gone, put not your worthy Rage into your Tongue,
One time will owe another

Corio. On faire ground, I could beat fortie of them

Mene. I could my selfe take vp a Brace o'th' best of
them, yea, the two Tribunes

Com. But now 'tis oddes beyond Arithmetick,
And Manhood is call'd Foolerie, when it stands
Against a falling Fabrick. Will you hence,
Before the Tagge returne? whose Rage doth rend
Like interrupted Waters, and o're-beare
What they are vs'd to beare

Mene. Pray you be gone:
Ile trie whether my old Wit be in request
With those that haue but little: this must be patcht
With Cloth of any Colour

Com. Nay, come away.

Exeunt. Coriolanus and Cominius.

Patri. This man ha's marr'd his fortune

Mene. His nature is too noble for the World:
He would not flatter Neptune for his Trident,
Or Ioue, for's power to Thunder: his Heart's his Mouth:
What his Brest forges, that his Tongue must vent,