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[Alarum. Enter Martius, cursing]
MARTIUS All the contagion of the South light on you,
You shames of Rome. You herd of boils, and plagues
Plaster you o'er, that you may be abhorr'd
Farther than seen, and one infect the another
Against the wind a mile. You souls of geese,
That bear the shapes of men, how have you run
From slaves that apes would beat. Pluto and Hell,
All hurt behind, backs red, and faces pale
With flight and agued fear. Mend and charge home,
Or by the fires of heaven, I'll leave the foe
And make my wars on you!
Coriolanus, Act 3 Scene 2
© 2008 Mark Brierley