Thine enmity's most capital: thou barr'st us
Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort
That all but we enjoy; for how can we,
Alas! how can we for our country pray,
Whereto we are bound, together with thy victory,
Whereto we are bound? Alack! or we must lose
The country, our dear nurse; or else thy person,
Our comfort in the country. We must find

An evident calamity, though we had

Our wish, which side should win; for either thou
Must, as a foreign recreant, be led

With manacles through our streets, or else
Triumphantly tread on thy country's ruin,
And bear the palm, for having bravely shed
Thy wife and children's blood. For myself, son,
I purpose not to wait on fortune, till

These wars determine: if I cannot persuade thee
Rather to show a noble grace to both parts,
Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner
March to assault thy country, than to tread
(Trust to 't, thou shalt not) on thy mother's womb,
That brought thee to this world.

Vir.

Ay, and mine, That brought you forth this boy, to keep your name Living to time.

Boy.

He shall not tread on me:

I'll run away till I am bigger, but then I'll fight.
Cor. Not of a woman's tenderness to be,
Requires nor child nor woman's face to see.

I have sat too long.

Vol.

Nay, go not from us thus. If it were so, that our request did tend

To save the Romans, thereby to destroy

The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn us,
As poisonous of your honour: no; our suit

Is, that you reconcile them: while the Volsces

May say, "This mercy we have show'd;" the Romans,

[Rising.

"This we receiv'd;" and each in either side
Give the all-hail to thee, and cry, "Be bless'd
For making up this peace!" Thou know'st, great son,
The end of war 's uncertain; but this certain,
That if thou conquer Rome, the benefit
Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name,
Whose repetition will be dogg'd with curses,
Whose chronicle thus writ, "The man was noble,
But with his last attempt he wip'd it out,
Destroy'd his country, and his name remains
To the ensuing age abhorr'd." Speak to me, son!
Thou hast affected the fine strains of honour,
To imitate the graces of the gods;

To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' the air,
And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt

That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak?
Think'st thou it honourable for a noble man

Still to remember wrongs?

He cares not for your weeping.

Daughter, speak you;
Speak thou, boy:

Perhaps, thy childishness will move him more

Than can our reasons.
More bound to 's mother;
Like one i' the stocks.

There is no man in the world

yet here he lets me prate

Thou hast never in thy life

Show'd thy dear mother any courtesy ;

When she, (poor hen!) fond of no second brood,
Has cluck'd thee to the wars, and safely home,
Loaden with honour. Say, my request 's unjust,
And spurn me back; but, if it be not so,

Thou art not honest, and the gods will plague thee,
That thou restrain'st from me the duty, which
To a mother's part belongs.
He turns away:
Down, ladies; let us shame him with our knees.
To his surname, Coriolanus, 'longs more pride,
Than pity to our prayers. Down: an end;
This is the last; so we will home to Rome,
And die among our neighbours. — Nay, behold us.
This boy, that cannot tell what he would have,

But kneels and holds up hands for fellowship,
Does reason our petition with more strength
Than thou hast to deny 't. - Come, let us go.
This fellow had a Volscian to his mother;

His wife is in Corioli, and his child

Like him by chance.

Yet give us our despatch:

I am hush'd until our city be afire,
And then I'll speak a little.

Cor.

What have you done?

[He holds VOLUMNIA by the hand, silent.
O mother, mother!

Behold! the heavens do ope,
The gods look down, and this unnatural scene
They laugh at. O my mother! mother! O!
You have won a happy victory to Rome;

But, for your son, believe it, O! believe it,
Most dangerously you have with him prevail'd,
If not most mortal to him. But let it come.
Aufidius, though I cannot make true wars,
I'll frame convenient peace. Now, good Aufidius,
Were you in my stead, would you have heard

A mother less, or granted less, Aufidius?

Auf. I was mov'd withal.
Cor.

I dare be sworn, you were:

And, Sir, it is no little thing to make

Mine eyes to sweat compassion. But, good Sir,
What peace you'll make, advise me.

For my part,
I'll not to Rome, I'll back with you; and pray you,
Stand to me in this cause.

O mother! wife!

Auf. [Aside.] I am glad, thou hast set thy mercy and thy

honour

At difference in thee: out of that I 'll work

Myself a former fortune.

Cor.

[The Ladies make signs to CORIolanus. Ay, by and by;

[To VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, &c.

But we will drink together; and you shall bear
A better witness back than words, which we

On like conditions will have counter-seal'd.
Come, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve
To have a temple built you: all the swords
In Italy, and her confederate arms,
Could not have made this peace.

SCENE IV.

Rome. A Public Place.

Enter MENENIUS and SICINIUS.

[Exeunt.

Men. See you yond' coign o' the Capitol; yond' corner

Men. If it be possible for you to displace it with your little finger, there is some hope the ladies of Rome, especially his mother, may prevail with him: but I say, there is no hope in 't. Our throats are sentenced, and stay upon execution.

Sic.

Is 't possible, that so short a time can alter the condition of a man?

Men. There is differency between a grub, and a butterfly; yet your butterfly was a grub. This Marcius is grown from man to dragon: he has wings; he's more than a creeping thing.

Sic. He loved his mother dearly.

Men. So did he me; and he no more remembers his mother now, than an eight year old horse. The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes when he walks, he moves like an engine, and the ground shrinks before his treading. He is able to pierce a corslet with his eye; talks like a knell, and his hum is a battery. He sits in his state, as a thing made for Alexander. What he bids be done, is finished with his bidding: he wants nothing of a god but eternity, and a heaven to throne in.

Sic. Yes, mercy, if you report him truly.

Men. I paint him in the character. Mark what mercy his mother shall bring from him: there is no more mercy in him, than there is milk in a male tiger; that shall our poor city find: and all this is 'long of you.

Sic. The gods be good unto us!

Men. No, in such a case the gods will not be good unto us. When we banished him, we respected not them; and, he returning to break our necks, they respect not us.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. Sir, if you'd save your life, fly to your house.
The plebeians have got your fellow-tribune,
And hale him up and down; all swearing, if
The Roman ladies bring not comfort home,
They 'll give him death by inches.

Sic.

Enter another Messenger.

What's the news?

--

Mess. Good news, good news! The ladies have prevail'd, The Volscians are dislodg'd, and Marcius gone.

A merrier day did never yet greet Rome,
No, not the expulsion of the Tarquins.

Friend,

Sic.
Art thou certain this is true? is it most certain?
Mess. As certain, as I know the sun is fire:
Where have you lurk'd, that you make doubt of it?
Ne'er through an arch so hurried the blown tide,

As the recomforted through the gates. Why, hark you!

[Trumpets and Hautboys sounded, and Drums beaten,
all together. Shouting also within.

The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries, and fifes,
Tabors, and cymbals, and the shouting Romans,
Make the sun dance. Hark you!

Men.

[Shouting again.

This is good news.

I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia

Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians,
A city full; of tribunes, such as you,

A sea and land-full. You have pray'd well to-day:
This morning for ten thousand of your throats

I'd not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy!

[Shouting and Music.

Sic. First, the gods bless you for their tidings: next, Accept my thankfulness.