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Note me this, good friend; |
Your most grave belly was deliberate, |
Not rash like his accusers, and thus answer'd: |
'True is it, my incorporate friends,' quoth he, |
'That I receive the general food at first, |
Which you do live upon; and fit it is, |
Because I am the store-house and the shop |
Of the whole body: but, if you do remember, |
I send it through the rivers of your blood, |
Even to the court, the heart, to the seat o' the brain; |
And, through the cranks and offices of man, |
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. |
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 ice, |
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 stored. |
MARCIUS: |
Hang 'em! They say! |
They'll sit by the 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, |