MENENIUS. ’Tis Aufidius, Who, hearing of our Martius’ banishment, Thrusts forth his horns again into the world, Which were inshelled when Martius stood for Rome, And durst not once peep out. SICINIUS. Come, what talk you of Martius? BRUTUS. Go see this rumourer whipped. It cannot be The Volsces dare break with us. MENENIUS. Cannot be? We have record that very well it can, And three examples of the like hath been Within my age. But reason with the fellow Before you punish him, where he heard this, Lest you shall chance to whip your information And beat the messenger who bids beware Of what is to be dreaded. SICINIUS. Tell not me. I know this cannot be. BRUTUS. Not possible. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. The nobles in great earnestness are going All to the Senate House. Some news is coming That turns their countenances. SICINIUS. ’Tis this slave— Go whip him ’fore the people’s eyes—his raising, Nothing but his report. MESSENGER. Yes, worthy sir, The slave’s report is seconded, and more, More fearful, is delivered. SICINIUS. What more fearful? MESSENGER. It is spoke freely out of many mouths— How probable I do not know—that Martius, Joined with Aufidius, leads a power ’gainst Rome And vows revenge as spacious as between The young’st and oldest thing. SICINIUS. This is most likely! BRUTUS. Raised only that the weaker sort may wish Good Martius home again. SICINIUS. The very trick on ’t. MENENIUS. This is unlikely; He and Aufidius can no more atone Than violent’st contrariety. Enter a Second Messenger. SECOND MESSENGER. You are sent for to the Senate. A fearful army, led by Caius Martius Associated with Aufidius, rages Upon our territories, and have already O’erborne their way, consumed with fire and took What lay before them. Enter Cominius. COMINIUS. O, you have made good work! MENENIUS. What news? What news? COMINIUS. You have holp to ravish your own daughters and To melt the city leads upon your pates, To see your wives dishonoured to your noses— MENENIUS. What’s the news? What’s the news? COMINIUS. Your temples burned in their cement, and Your franchises, whereon you stood, confined Into an auger’s bore. MENENIUS. Pray now, your news?— You have made fair work, I fear me.—Pray, your news? If Martius should be joined with Volscians— COMINIUS. If? He is their god; he leads them like a thing Made by some other deity than Nature, That shapes man better; and they follow him Against us brats with no less confidence Than boys pursuing summer butterflies Or butchers killing flies. MENENIUS. You have made good work, You and your apron-men, you that stood so much Upon the voice of occupation and The breath of garlic eaters! COMINIUS. He’ll shake your Rome about your ears. MENENIUS. As Hercules did shake down mellow fruit. You have made fair work. BRUTUS. But is this true, sir?