William Shakespeare: The Tragedy of Coriolanus

ACT I. 9. SCENE IX. The Roman camp. (continued)

CORIOLANUS.
The gods begin to mock me. I, that now
Refus'd most princely gifts, am bound to beg
Of my lord general.

COMINIUS.
Take't: 'tis yours.--What is't?

CORIOLANUS.
I sometime lay here in Corioli
At a poor man's house; he used me kindly:
He cried to me; I saw him prisoner;
But then Aufidius was within my view,
And wrath o'erwhelmed my pity: I request you
To give my poor host freedom.

COMINIUS.
O, well begg'd!
Were he the butcher of my son, he should
Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus.

LARTIUS.
Marcius, his name?

CORIOLANUS.
By Jupiter, forgot:--
I am weary; yea, my memory is tir'd.--
Have we no wine here?

COMINIUS.
Go we to our tent:
The blood upon your visage dries; 'tis time
It should be look'd to: come.

[Exeunt.]