Was tim'd with dying cries: alone he enter'd
The mortal gate of the city, which he painted 116
With shunless destiny; aidless came off,
And with a sudden re-enforcement struck
Corioli like a planet. Now all's his:
When by and by the din of war 'gan pierce 120
His ready sense; then straight his doubled spirit
Re-quicken'd what in flesh was fatigate,
And to the battle came he; where he did
Run reeking o'er the lives of men, as if 124
'Twere a perpetual spoil; and till we call'd
Both field and city ours, he never stood
To ease his breast with panting.
Men. Worthy man!
Sen. He cannot but with measure fit the honours 128
Which we devise him.
Com. Our spoils he kick'd at,
And look'd upon things precious as they were
The common muck o' the world: he covets less
Than misery itself would give; rewards 132
His deeds with doing them, and is content
To spend the time to end it.
Men. He’s right noble:
Let him be call'd for.
Sen. Call Coriolanus.
Off. He doth appear. 136
Enter Coriolanus.
Men. The senate, Coriolanus, are well pleas'd
To make thee consul.
Cor. I do owe them still
My life and services.
116, 117 painted . . . destiny: stained with the blood of those who could not escape their doom
120 by and by: immediately
122 fatigate: wearied
129 kick'd at: scorned
130 as: as if
134 to end it: merely to kill time
