Part 7

Another Alarum, and Martius followes them to gates, and is shut in.

So, now the gates are ope: now proue good Seconds, 'Tis for the followers Fortune, widens them, Not for the flyers: Marke me, and do the like. Enter the Gati.

1.Sol. Foole-hardinesse, not I

2.Sol. Nor I

1.Sol. See they haue shut him in.

Alarum continues

All. To th' pot I warrant him.

Enter Titus Lartius

Tit. What is become of Martius? All. Slaine (Sir) doubtlesse

1.Sol. Following the Flyers at the very heeles, With them he enters: who vpon the sodaine Clapt to their Gates, he is himselfe alone, To answer all the City

Lar. Oh Noble Fellow! Who sensibly out-dares his sencelesse Sword, And when it bowes, stand'st vp: Thou art left Martius, A Carbuncle intire: as big as thou art Weare not so rich a Iewell. Thou was't a Souldier Euen to Calues wish, not fierce and terrible Onely in strokes, but with thy grim lookes, and The Thunder-like percussion of thy sounds Thou mad'st thine enemies shake, as if the World Were Feauorous, and did tremble. Enter Martius bleeding, assaulted by the Enemy.

1.Sol. Looke Sir

Lar. O 'tis Martius. Let's fetch him off, or make remaine alike.

They fight, and all enter the City.

Enter certaine Romanes with spoiles.

1.Rom. This will I carry to Rome

2.Rom. And I this

3.Rom. A Murrain on't, I tooke this for Siluer.

Exeunt.

Alarum continues still a-farre off.

Enter Martius, and Titus with a Trumpet.

Mar. See heere these mouers, that do prize their hours At a crack'd Drachme: Cushions, Leaden Spoones, Irons of a Doit, Dublets that Hangmen would Bury with those that wore them. These base slaues, Ere yet the fight be done, packe vp, downe with them. And harke, what noyse the Generall makes: To him There is the man of my soules hate, Auffidious, Piercing our Romanes: Then Valiant Titus take Conuenient Numbers to make good the City, Whil'st I with those that haue the spirit, wil haste To helpe Cominius

Lar. Worthy Sir, thou bleed'st, Thy exercise hath bin too violent, For a second course of Fight

Mar. Sir, praise me not: My worke hath yet not warm'd me. Fare you well: The blood I drop, is rather Physicall Then dangerous to me: To Auffidious thus, I will appear and fight

Lar. Now the faire Goddesse Fortune, Fall deepe in loue with thee, and her great charmes Misguide thy Opposers swords, Bold Gentleman: Prosperity be thy Page

Mar. Thy Friend no lesse, Then those she placeth highest: So farewell

Lar. Thou worthiest Martius, Go sound thy Trumpet in the Market place, Call thither all the Officers a'th' Towne, Where they shall know our minde. Away.

Exeunt.