But make you ready your stiff bats and clubs:
Rome and her rats are at the point of battle; 168
The one side must have bale.
Enter Caius Martius.
Hail, noble Martius!
Mar. Thanks.—What's the matter, you dissentious rogues,
That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion,
Make yourselves scabs?
2. Cit. We have ever your good word. 172
Mar. 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, 176
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, 180
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 184
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, 188
And call him noble that was now your hate,
169 bale: disaster
171, 172 rubbing . . . scabs; cf. n.
174 Beneath abhorring: more than can be enough abhorred
175 nor . . . nor: neither . . . nor
179 Cf. n.
180–182 Your virtue . . . did it; cf. n.
183 affections: favorable opinions
