Lartius. I shall, my Lord

Martius. The Gods begin to mocke me:
I that now refus'd most Princely gifts,
Am bound to begge of my Lord Generall

Com. Tak't, 'tis yours: what is't?
Martius. I sometime lay here in Corioles,
At a poore mans house: he vs'd me kindly,
He cry'd to me: I saw him Prisoner:
But then Auffidius was within my view,
And Wrath o're-whelm'd my pittie: I request you
To giue my poore Host freedome

Com. Oh well begg'd:
Were he the Butcher of my Sonne, he should
Be free, as is the Winde: deliuer him, Titus

Lartius. Martius, his Name

Martius. By Iupiter forgot:
I am wearie, yea, my memorie is tyr'd:
Haue we no Wine here?
Com. Goe we to our Tent:
The bloud vpon your Visage dryes, 'tis time
It should be lookt too: come.

Exeunt.