thehumming6ird:

You shames of Rome! You herd of – boils and plagues 

Plaster you o’er, that you may be abhored

Further than seen and one infect 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: look to’t: Come on!

                                                        Coriolanus, Act i Scene IV