This will I carry to Rome.
I'm taking this to Rome.
This one's mine. Going to Rome.
im keeping this for rome
And I this.
And I'm taking this.
Yeah, I'm taking mine too.
im taking this one
A murrain on’t! I took this for silver.
A plague on it! I thought this was silver.
Damn it! I thought this was real silver.
damn i thought silver nope
See here these movers that do prize their hours
At a cracked drachma. Cushions, leaden spoons,
Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would
Bury with those that wore them, these base slaves,
Ere yet the fight be done, pack up. Down with them!
Look at these men here who value their hours for a worthless coin. Cushions, lead spoons, iron trinkets worth nothing — the kind of rags that grave-diggers would bury with corpses. These contemptible slaves are packing their loot before the battle is even done. Stop it! Get that trash out of here!
See these guys? They're trading their time as soldiers for junk coins. Pillows, cheap spoons, worthless iron — the kind of garbage they'd bury with dead bodies. These pathetic scavengers are already bagging plunder while men are still dying. Stop it now! Clear out the junk!
look at these looters trading honor for trash cushions spoons worthless garbage throw it out go
When Martius tells Lartius that his bleeding wounds are 'rather physical / Than dangerous to me,' he's not being stoic for the sake of appearances. He genuinely believes it. The medical doctrine of 'blood-letting' — that drawing blood from the body expelled harmful humours — was still accepted in Shakespeare's time, drawn from classical sources that Martius would have recognised. But Shakespeare is doing something more than historical colour here: the line tells us that Martius experiences his own body differently than other men. Pain and blood are, to him, tools of equilibrium rather than signals to retreat. This is the physiology of a man who was programmed from boyhood, by the woman we met in scene 1-3, to regard physical damage as proof of virtue rather than cause for alarm. Watch how his body — its wounds, its appearance, its refusal to stop — becomes the text that other characters read throughout Acts 1 and 2.
Worthy sir, thou bleed’st.
Thy exercise hath been too violent
For a second course of fight.
Now may the fair goddess Fortune fall deeply in love with you, and may her great magic confuse your enemies' blades! Bold soldier, may Success follow you like a page!
May Fortune herself fall for you, and may her power mess with your enemies' swords! Go boldly — let Success be your servant!
fortune fall for you magic confuses enemies bold success follows
Sir, praise me not.
My work hath yet not warmed me. Fare you well.
The blood I drop is rather physical
Than dangerous to me. To Aufidius thus
I will appear and fight.
You are no less my friend than any man Fortune favors most. Goodbye.
You matter to me as much as anyone ever has. See you later.
youre my friend as much as anyone goodbye
Martius's fury at the soldiers taking spoils is genuine, and it's one of his most sympathetic moments — until you think about it carefully. His contempt is not for the looting per se but for what it reveals: that these men value 'cracked drachmas' over the purity of the fight itself. In Roman law, soldiers had a legal right to the spoils of war. By denying them that right — and by refusing his own share of the treasure in 1-9 — Martius is substituting his personal code for the law of Rome. He's not more virtuous than the looters; he's more absolutist. The same impulse that drives him to refuse rewards in 1-9 drives him to demand that others share his disdain for rewards. And demanding that everyone share your code — however pure — is its own form of tyranny. The play is very careful about this.
Now the fair goddess Fortune
Fall deep in love with thee, and her great charms
Misguide thy opposers’ swords! Bold gentleman,
Prosperity be thy page!
You are the worthiest Martius!
You're the best there is, Martius!
youre the best worthiest martius
Thy friend no less
Than those she placeth highest! So farewell.
Martius exits, heading toward the battle where Cominius and Aufidius fight.
Martius leaves to find Aufidius.
martius exits to aufidius
Thou worthiest Martius!
Go blow your trumpet in the city square.
Sound the trumpet in the marketplace.
sound the trumpet in the square
The Reckoning
Corioles is taken, but Martius won't stay to enjoy it. The scene is essentially his refusal to profit from what he just won — he's bleeding, the battle has barely ended, and his only thought is to find Aufidius. The looting soldiers are, to him, worse than the enemy: they put survival ahead of glory. The audience sees a man who is genuinely unable to stop.
If this happened today…
The startup's product just launched successfully. While the team is cracking champagne and divvying up the credit, the lead engineer is already at his laptop, frustrated: 'The real competition just released their beta — we have to go right now.' His co-founder tries to get him to rest. He's already out the door. That's Martius in 1-5.