Original
Modern English
If I should tell thee o’er this thy day’s work, Thou’ldst not believe thy deeds: but I’ll report it Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles, Where great patricians shall attend and shrug, I’ the end admire, where ladies shall be frighted, And, gladly quaked, hear more; where the dull tribunes, That, with the fusty plebeians, hate thine honours, Shall say against their hearts ’We thank the gods Our Rome hath such a soldier.’ Yet camest thou to a morsel of this feast, Having fully dined before.
If I were to tell you everything you’ve done today, You wouldn’t believe it: but I’ll report it Where senators will mix tears with smiles, Where great patricians will look on and shrug, And in the end admire, where ladies will be scared, And, trembling with joy, hear more; where the dull tribunes, Who, with the filthy plebeians, hate your glory, Will say against their will, ‘We thank the gods That Rome has such a soldier.’ But you came to this feast too late, Having already eaten before.
O general, Here is the steed, we the caparison: Hadst thou beheld--
Oh general, Here is the horse, we have the saddle: If you had seen--
Pray now, no more: my mother, Who has a charter to extol her blood, When she does praise me grieves me. I have done As you have done; that’s what I can; induced As you have been; that’s for my country: He that has but effected his good will Hath overta’en mine act.
Please, no more: my mother, Who has the right to praise her own blood, When she praises me, it saddens me. I have done What you have done; that’s all I can do; I’ve been moved Just like you have; that’s for my country: He who has only achieved his good intentions Has caught up to my actions.
You shall not be The grave of your deserving; Rome must know The value of her own: ’twere a concealment Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement, To hide your doings; and to silence that, Which, to the spire and top of praises vouch’d, Would seem but modest: therefore, I beseech you In sign of what you are, not to reward What you have done--before our army hear me.
You should not be The one to bury your own worth; Rome must know The value of her own: to hide your deeds Would be worse than stealing, no less than slandering, To silence that, Which, at its highest point, deserves praise, Would seem like modesty: so, I beg you As a sign of who you are, not to deny What you’ve done--before our army hears me.
I have some wounds upon me, and they smart To hear themselves remember’d.
I have some wounds on me, and they hurt To be reminded of.
Should they not, Well might they fester ’gainst ingratitude, And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses, Whereof we have ta’en good and good store, of all The treasure in this field achieved and city, We render you the tenth, to be ta’en forth, Before the common distribution, at Your only choice.
Shouldn’t they? They might get infected from ingratitude, And kill themselves. Of all the horses, Which we’ve taken plenty of, and all The treasure we’ve won from this field and city, We give you a tenth of it, to be taken out, Before the general distribution, at Your sole discretion.
I thank you, general; But cannot make my heart consent to take A bribe to pay my sword: I do refuse it; And stand upon my common part with those That have beheld the doing.
Thank you, general; But I can’t bring myself to accept A bribe to repay my sword: I refuse it; And stand with the common people who Have witnessed the actions.
May these same instruments, which you profane, Never sound more! when drums and trumpets shall I’ the field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be Made all of false-faced soothing! When steel grows soft as the parasite’s silk, Let him be made a coverture for the wars! No more, I say! For that I have not wash’d My nose that bled, or foil’d some debile wretch.-- Which, without note, here’s many else have done,-- You shout me forth In acclamations hyperbolical; As if I loved my little should be dieted In praises sauced with lies.
May these instruments, which you desecrate, Never make another sound! when drums and trumpets in The field prove to be liars, let courts and cities be Filled with false, flattering words! When steel becomes as soft as the sycophant’s silk, Let him become a shield in wars! No more, I say! For I haven’t washed My nose that’s still bleeding, or struck some weakling-- Which many others here have done without any notice-- Yet you shout my name In exaggerated praise; As if I loved to have my little ego fed On lies wrapped in compliments.
Too modest are you; More cruel to your good report than grateful To us that give you truly: by your patience, If ’gainst yourself you be incensed, we’ll put you, Like one that means his proper harm, in manacles, Then reason safely with you. Therefore, be it known, As to us, to all the world, that Caius Marcius Wears this war’s garland: in token of the which, My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him, With all his trim belonging; and from this time, For what he did before Corioli, call him, With all the applause and clamour of the host, CAIUS MARCIUS CORIOLANUS! Bear The addition nobly ever!
You’re too modest; More cruel to your reputation than grateful To us who are giving you what you truly deserve: by your patience, If you’re angry with yourself, we’ll put you, Like someone who wants to hurt himself, in chains, And reason with you safely. So, let it be known, To us and to the world, that Caius Marcius Wears the wreath of this war: in honor of which, My noble horse, known throughout the camp, I give him, With all his fine equipment; and from now on, For what he did at Corioli, let him be called, With all the cheers and shouts of the army, CAIUS MARCIUS CORIOLANUS! May The title be worn with honor forever!
Caius Marcius Coriolanus!
Caius Marcius Coriolanus!
I will go wash; And when my face is fair, you shall perceive Whether I blush or no: howbeit, I thank you. I mean to stride your steed, and at all times To undercrest your good addition To the fairness of my power.
I will go wash; And when my face is clean, you’ll see Whether I blush or not: still, I thank you. I plan to ride your horse, and always To honor your good title With the strength of my power.
So, to our tent; Where, ere we do repose us, we will write To Rome of our success. You, Titus Lartius, Must to Corioli back: send us to Rome The best, with whom we may articulate, For their own good and ours.
So, let’s go to our tent; Where, before we rest, we’ll write To Rome about our success. You, Titus Lartius, Must return to Corioli: send us to Rome The best, with whom we can speak, For their benefit and ours.
I shall, my lord.
I will, my lord.
The gods begin to mock me. I, that now Refused most princely gifts, am bound to beg Of my lord general.
The gods are starting to mock me. I, who just now Refused royal gifts, am now forced to beg Of my lord general.
Take’t; ’tis yours. What is’t?
Take it; it’s yours. What is it?
I sometime lay here in Corioli At a poor man’s house; he used me kindly: He cried to me; I saw him prisoner; But then Aufidius was with in my view, And wrath o’erwhelm’d my pity: I request you To give my poor host freedom.
I once stayed here in Corioli At a poor man’s house; he treated me well: He called out to me; I saw him taken prisoner; But then Aufidius was in my sight, And anger overwhelmed my sympathy: I ask you To grant my poor host his freedom.
O, well begg’d! Were he the butcher of my son, he should Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus.
Well begged! If he were the man who killed my son, he should Be free as the wind. Set him free, Titus.
Marcius, his name?
Marcius, what’s his name?
By Jupiter! forgot. I am weary; yea, my memory is tired. Have we no wine here?
By Jupiter! forgot. I’m exhausted; yeah, my memory’s shot. Do we have any wine here?
Go we to our tent: The blood upon your visage dries; ’tis time It should be look’d to: come.
Let’s go to our tent: The blood on your face is drying; it’s time It should be cleaned: come.