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Rome. A public place.
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A public place in Rome.
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Enter MENENIUS and SICINIUS
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MENENIUS and SICINIUS enter.
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MENENIUS See you yond coign o’ the Capitol, yond
corner-stone?
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MENENIUS Do you see, beyond the corner of the capitol, beyond the cornerstone?
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SICINIUS Why, what of that?
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SICINIUS What is that?
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MENENIUS If it be possible for you to displace it with your
5little finger, there is some hope the ladies of
Rome, especially his mother, may prevail with him.
But I say there is no hope in’t: our throats are
sentenced and stay upon execution.
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MENENIUS If you can block it with your little finger, there is some hope that the ladies of Rome, especially his mother, might prevail with him. But I don’t think there is any hope. Our fate is sealed. Our throats wait to be slit.
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SICINIUS Is’t possible that so short a time can alter the
10condition of a man!
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SICINIUS Is it possible that a man can change so much in so short a time?
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MENENIUS There is differency between a grub and a butterfly;
yet your butterfly was a grub. This Martius is grown
from man to dragon: he has wings; he’s more than a
creeping thing.
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MENENIUS There’s a difference between a caterpillar and a butterfly, but butterflies were once caterpillars. This Martius has grown from man to dragon: he has wings—he’s more than a creeping thing.
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SICINIUS
15He loved his mother dearly.
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SICINIUS He loved his mother dearly.
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MENENIUS So did he me: and he no more remembers his mother
now than an eight-year-old horse. The tartness
of his face sours ripe grapes: when he walks, he
moves like an engine, and the ground shrinks before
20his treading: he is able to pierce a corslet with
his eye; talks like a knell, and his hum is a
battery. He sits in his state, as a thing made for
Alexander. What he bids be done is finished with
his bidding. He wants nothing of a god but eternity
25and a heaven to throne in.
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MENENIUS He also loved me. He won’t remember his mother any more than an eight-year-old horse would. The tartness of his face makes ripe grapes go sour. When he walks, he moves like a war machine, and the ground sinks beneath his feet. He’s able to pierce armor with his eye, he talks like a death knell, and his voice itself is an assault. He sits on his throne, looking like a statue of Alexander the Great. His orders are carried out as soon as he gives them. All that he lacks to be a god is immortality and a heaven to rule.
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