leads fill'd, and ridges horsed With variable complexions, all agreeing In earnestness to see him: seld-shown flamens Do press among the popular throngs and puff To win a vulgar station: or veil'd dames Commit the war of white and damask in Their nicely-gawded cheeks to the wanton spoil Of Phoebus' burning kisses: such a pother As if that whatsoever god who leads him Were slily crept into his human powers And gave him graceful posture. On the sudden, I warrant him consul. Then our office may, During his power, go sleep. He cannot temperately transport his honours From where he should begin and end, but will Lose those he hath won. In that there's comfort. Doubt not The commoners, for whom we stand, but they Upon their ancient malice will forget With the least cause these his new honours, which That he will give them make I as little question As he is proud to do't. I heard him swear, Were he to stand for consul, never would he Appear i' the market-place nor on him put The napless vesture of humility; Nor showing, as the manner is, his wounds To the people, beg their stinking breaths. 'Tis right. It was his word: O, he would miss it rather Than carry it but by the suit of the gentry to him, And the desire of the nobles. I wish no better Than have him hold that purpose and to put it In execution. 'Tis most like he will. It shall be to him then as our good wills, A sure destruction. So it must fall out To him or our authorities. For an end, We must suggest the people in what hatred He still hath held them; that to's power he would Have made them mules, silenced their pleaders and Dispropertied their freedoms, holding them, In human action and capacity, Of no more soul nor fitness for the world Than camels in the war, who have their provand Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows For sinking under them. This, as you say, suggested At some time when his soaring insolence Shall touch the people--which time shall not want, If he be put upon 't; and that's as easy As to set dogs on sheep--will be his fire To kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze Shall darken him for ever. What's the matter? You are sent for to the Capitol. 'Tis thought That Marcius shall be consul: I have seen the dumb men throng to see him and The blind to bear him speak: matrons flung gloves, Ladies and maids their scarfs and handkerchers,