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The augurer tells me we shall have news to-night.
The soothsayer says we’ll get some news tonight.
Good or bad?
Good news or bad?
Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not Marcius.
Not the kind the people want, since they don’t like Marcius.
Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.
Even animals know who their friends are.
Pray you, who does the wolf love?
Tell me, who does the wolf love?
The lamb.
The lamb.
Ay, to devour him; as the hungry plebeians would the noble Marcius.
Yes, to eat him; just like how the hungry common people want to eat the noble Marcius.
He’s a lamb indeed, that baes like a bear.
He’s a lamb, all right, that roars like a bear.
He’s a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two are old men: tell me one thing that I shall ask you.
He’s a bear, all right, that behaves like a lamb. You two are old men, so answer me one question.
Well, sir.
Go ahead, sir.
In what enormity is Marcius poor in, that you two have not in abundance?
What great flaw does Marcius have that you two don’t have plenty of yourselves?
He’s poor in no one fault, but stored with all.
He doesn’t lack any flaw—he’s got them all.
Especially in pride.
Especially pride.
And topping all others in boasting.
And outdoing everyone in bragging.
This is strange now: do you two know how you are censured here in the city, I mean of us o’ the right-hand file? do you?
This is odd now: do you two know how you’re talked about here in the city, I mean by us in the higher class? Do you?
Why, how are we censured?
Why, how are we talked about?
Because you talk of pride now,--will you not be angry?
Because you’re talking about pride now—won’t you be upset?
Well, well, sir, well.
Well, well, sir, well.
Why, ’tis no great matter; for a very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience: give your dispositions the reins, and be angry at your pleasures; at the least if you take it as a pleasure to you in being so. You blame Marcius for being proud?
Well, it’s no big deal; because even a small spark of anger will make you lose a lot of patience: let your temper go and be mad at your own pleasures; at least if you enjoy it. You blame Marcius for being proud?
We do it not alone, sir.
We’re not the only ones doing it, sir.
I know you can do very little alone; for your helps are many, or else your actions would grow wondrous single: your abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone. You talk of pride: O that you could turn your eyes toward the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves! O that you could!
I know you can’t do much on your own; you’ve got plenty of help, or else your actions would seem terribly lonely: you’re too inexperienced to do much on your own. You talk about pride: Oh, I wish you could look at the backs of your own necks, and take a good look at yourselves! Oh, I wish you could!
What then, sir?
What’s that supposed to mean, sir?
Why, then you should discover a brace of unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates, alias fools, as any in Rome.
Well, then you’d see two unworthy, proud, angry, short-tempered officials, or fools, like any in Rome.
Menenius, you are known well enough too.
Menenius, we know you well enough too.
I am known to be a humorous patrician, and one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in’t; said to be something imperfect in favouring the first complaint; hasty and tinder-like upon too trivial motion; one that converses more with the buttock of the night than with the forehead of the morning: what I think I utter, and spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two such wealsmen as you are--I cannot call you Lycurguses--if the drink you give me touch my palate adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I can’t say your worships have delivered the matter well, when I find the ass in compound with the major part of your syllables: and though I must be content to bear with those that say you are reverend grave men, yet they lie deadly that tell you you have good faces. If you see this in the map of my microcosm, follows it that I am known well enough too? what barm can your bisson conspectuities glean out of this character, if I be known well enough too?
I’m known for being a sarcastic nobleman, and for loving a glass of hot wine without any water in it; said to be a bit quick-tempered when supporting the first complaint; grumpy and touchy over the smallest things; someone who spends more time with the late-night party than the early morning; I speak what I think, and vent my anger with my words. When I meet two such fine gentlemen like you—I can’t call you great leaders—if the wine you give me tastes bad, I’ll make a face. I can’t say you’ve made your point well, when I find myself confused by your words: and though I must agree that some say you’re wise, they lie horribly when they say you have pleasant faces. If you see this in my view of things, does it follow that I’m well-known too? What can your poor understanding make of my character, if I’m well-known too?
Come, sir, come, we know you well enough.
Come on, sir, come on, we know you well enough.
You know neither me, yourselves nor any thing. You are ambitious for poor knaves’ caps and legs: you wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange wife and a fosset-seller; and then rejourn the controversy of three pence to a second day of audience. When you are hearing a matter between party and party, if you chance to be pinched with the colic, you make faces like mummers; set up the bloody flag against all patience; and, in roaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss the controversy bleeding the more entangled by your hearing: all the peace you make in their cause is, calling both the parties knaves. You are a pair of strange ones.
You don’t know me, yourselves, or anything. You’re ambitious for poor fools’ hats and legs: you waste a good morning listening to a case between a woman selling oranges and a seller of faucets; and then continue the argument about three pennies on another day. When you’re hearing a case between two parties, if you happen to have a stomach ache, you make faces like actors; you raise the flag of impatience; and, in shouting for a chamber-pot, you leave the argument even more confused because of your listening: all the peace you make is calling both sides fools. You two are a strange pair.
Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter giber for the table than a necessary bencher in the Capitol.
Come, come, you’re known to be better at mocking people at the dinner table than at being a serious judge in the Senate.
Our very priests must become mockers, if they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects as you are. When you speak best unto the purpose, it is not worth the wagging of your beards; and your beards deserve not so honourable a grave as to stuff a botcher’s cushion, or to be entombed in an ass’s pack- saddle. Yet you must be saying, Marcius is proud; who in a cheap estimation, is worth predecessors since Deucalion, though peradventure some of the best of ’em were hereditary hangmen. God-den to your worships: more of your conversation would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians: I will be bold to take my leave of you.
Our very priests would become mockers, if they had to deal with ridiculous people like you. When you speak sensibly, it’s not even worth the movement of your beards; and your beards don’t deserve a grave as noble as a cobbler’s cushion, or to be buried in a donkey’s saddlebag. Yet you still say Marcius is proud; who, in a fair assessment, is worth more than any leader since Deucalion, even if some of the best of them were hereditary executioners. Good day to you: more of your company would ruin my brain, being the herders of the beastly commoners: I’ll take my leave.
How now, my as fair as noble ladies,--and the moon, were she earthly, no nobler,--whither do you follow your eyes so fast?
How are you, my beautiful and noble ladies?—and the moon, if she were on earth, no nobler than you—where are you looking so intently?
Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius approaches; for the love of Juno, let’s go.
Honorable Menenius, my son Marcius is coming; for the love of Juno, let’s go.
Ha! Marcius coming home!
Ha! Marcius is coming home!
Ay, worthy Menenius; and with most prosperous approbation.
Yes, worthy Menenius; and with the greatest approval.
Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee. Hoo! Marcius coming home!
Take my hat, Jupiter, and I thank you. Hoo! Marcius is coming home!
Nay,’tis true.
Yes, it’s true.
Look, here’s a letter from him: the state hath another, his wife another; and, I think, there’s one at home for you.
Look, here’s a letter from him: the state has one, his wife has one, and I think there’s one at home for you.
I will make my very house reel tonight: a letter for me!
I’m going to make my house spin tonight: a letter for me!
Yes, certain, there’s a letter for you; I saw’t.
Yes, definitely, there’s a letter for you; I saw it.
A letter for me! it gives me an estate of seven years’ health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician: the most sovereign prescription in Galen is but empiricutic, and, to this preservative, of no better report than a horse-drench. Is he not wounded? he was wont to come home wounded.
A letter for me! It gives me seven years of health; during which time I’ll mock the doctor: the best prescription in Galen is just trial-and-error, and this remedy is no better than a horse’s medicine. Is he not wounded? He used to come home wounded.
O, no, no, no.
Oh, no, no, no.
O, he is wounded; I thank the gods for’t.
Oh, he is wounded; I thank the gods for it.
So do I too, if it be not too much: brings a’ victory in his pocket? the wounds become him.
So do I, if it’s not too serious: does he bring a victory in his pocket? The wounds suit him.
On’s brows: Menenius, he comes the third time home with the oaken garland.
On his forehead: Menenius, he’s coming home for the third time wearing the oak wreath.
Has he disciplined Aufidius soundly?
Has he beaten Aufidius properly?
Titus Lartius writes, they fought together, but Aufidius got off.
Titus Lartius writes that they fought together, but Aufidius got away.
And ’twas time for him too, I’ll warrant him that: an he had stayed by him, I would not have been so fidiused for all the chests in Corioli, and the gold that’s in them. Is the senate possessed of this?
And it was probably a good thing for him too, I bet: if he’d stayed with him, I wouldn’t have been so tricked out of everything in Corioli, not even the gold inside the chests. Does the senate know about this?
Good ladies, let’s go. Yes, yes, yes; the senate has letters from the general, wherein he gives my son the whole name of the war: he hath in this action outdone his former deeds doubly
Good ladies, let’s go. Yes, yes, yes; the senate has letters from the general, where he gives my son full credit for the war: in this action, he has surpassed his previous deeds by twice as much
In troth, there’s wondrous things spoke of him.
Truly, people are saying amazing things about him.
Wondrous! ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing.
Amazing! Yes, I bet they are, and he deserves it for all he’s done.
The gods grant them true!
May the gods make it true!
True! pow, wow.
True! Absolutely true.
True! I’ll be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded?
True! I swear it’s true. Where is he hurt?
God save your good worships! Marcius is coming home: he has more cause to be proud. Where is he wounded?
God save your good worships! Marcius is coming home: he has every reason to be proud. Where is he wounded?
I’ the shoulder and i’ the left arm there will be large cicatrices to show the people, when he shall stand for his place. He received in the repulse of Tarquin seven hurts i’ the body.
In the shoulder and in the left arm; there’ll be big scars to show the people when he runs for office. He took seven wounds in the battle with Tarquin.
One i’ the neck, and two i’ the thigh,--there’s nine that I know.
One in the neck, and two in the thigh—so that makes nine that I know of.
He had, before this last expedition, twenty-five wounds upon him.
Before this last campaign, he had twenty-five wounds on him.
Now it’s twenty-seven: every gash was an enemy’s grave.
Now it’s twenty-seven: every wound is like a grave for his enemies.
Hark! the trumpets.
Listen! The trumpets.
These are the ushers of Marcius: before him he carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears: Death, that dark spirit, in ’s nervy arm doth lie; Which, being advanced, declines, and then men die.
These are the heralds for Marcius: ahead of him, he brings noise, and behind him, he leaves tears: Death, that dark force, lies in his strong arm; And when he moves forward, it weakens, and then men die.
Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight Within Corioli gates: where he hath won, With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these In honour follows Coriolanus. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!
Know, Rome, that Marcius fought alone inside the gates of Corioli: where he won, with fame, a name for Caius Marcius; and these in honor follow Coriolanus. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!
Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!
Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!
No more of this; it does offend my heart: Pray now, no more.
No more of this; it hurts my heart: Please, no more.
Look, sir, your mother!
Look, sir, your mother!
O, You have, I know, petition’d all the gods For my prosperity!
Oh, I know you’ve prayed to all the gods for my success!
Nay, my good soldier, up; My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and By deed-achieving honour newly named,-- What is it?--Coriolanus must I call thee?-- But O, thy wife!
No, my good soldier, get up; My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and now newly named by your deeds,-- What is it?--Should I call you Coriolanus?-- But oh, your wife!
My gracious silence, hail! Wouldst thou have laugh’d had I come coffin’d home, That weep’st to see me triumph? Ay, my dear, Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear, And mothers that lack sons.
My gracious silence, greetings! Would you have laughed if I’d come home in a coffin, and now you weep to see me triumph? Yes, my dear, that’s how the widows in Corioli feel, and the mothers who’ve lost their sons.
Now, the gods crown thee!
Now, may the gods bless you!
And live you yet?
Are you still alive?
O my sweet lady, pardon.
Oh my sweet lady, forgive me.
I know not where to turn: O, welcome home: And welcome, general: and ye’re welcome all.
I don’t know where to turn: Oh, welcome home: And welcome, general: and you’re all welcome.
A hundred thousand welcomes. I could weep And I could laugh, I am light and heavy. Welcome. A curse begin at very root on’s heart, That is not glad to see thee! You are three That Rome should dote on: yet, by the faith of men, We have some old crab-trees here at home that will not Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors: We call a nettle but a nettle and The faults of fools but folly.
A hundred thousand welcomes. I could cry And I could laugh, I’m both light and heavy. Welcome. A curse should start at the very core of anyone’s heart, Who isn’t happy to see you! You are three That Rome should adore: yet, by the faith of men, We have some old crabapple trees here at home that refuse to Be grafted to your taste. Yet welcome, warriors: We call a nettle a nettle and The faults of fools are just folly.
Ever right.
Always true.
Menenius ever, ever.
Menenius, always, always.
Give way there, and go on!
Step aside and continue!
[To VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA] Your hand, and yours: Ere in our own house I do shade my head, The good patricians must be visited; From whom I have received not only greetings, But with them change of honours.
[To VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA] Your hand, and yours: Before I lower my head in our own house, The good patricians must be honored; From whom I’ve received not just greetings, But also changes in rank.
I have lived To see inherited my very wishes And the buildings of my fancy: only There’s one thing wanting, which I doubt not but Our Rome will cast upon thee.
I’ve lived To see my very wishes inherited And the buildings of my dreams: only There’s one thing missing, which I’m sure Our Rome will bestow upon you.
Know, good mother, I had rather be their servant in my way, Than sway with them in theirs.
Know, good mother, I would rather be their servant in my way, Than rule with them in theirs.
On, to the Capitol!
Let’s go, to the Capitol!
All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights Are spectacled to see him: your prattling nurse Into a rapture lets her baby cry While she chats him: the kitchen malkin pins Her richest lockram ’bout her reechy neck, Clambering the walls to eye him: stalls, bulks, windows, Are smother’d up, 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.
Everyone talks about him, and the blind are eager To see him: your chattering nurse Lets her baby cry in delight While she chats with him: the kitchen maid pins Her finest cloth around her dirty neck, Climbing the walls to get a better look at him: stalls, carts, windows, Are packed, rooftops filled, and people everywhere, All eager to see him: even seldom-seen priests Push their way through the crowd, trying To gain a popular position: or veiled women Show off their cheeks, all flushed with the battle of white and red From the kisses of the sun god: such a commotion As if the god who guides him Had secretly entered his human form And gave him perfect grace.
On the sudden, I warrant him consul.
Suddenly, I bet he’ll be consul.
Then our office may, During his power, go sleep.
Then our jobs might, During his time in power, just go to sleep.
He cannot temperately transport his honours From where he should begin and end, but will Lose those he hath won.
He can’t keep his honors in balance From where he should start and end, but he’ll Lose the ones he’s gained.
In that there’s comfort.
In that, there’s some 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.
Don’t worry About the common people, for whom we’re standing, they Will forget their old grudges With the smallest reason, these new honors of his, which I have no doubt he will give them, just as sure As he is proud to do it.
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.
I heard him swear, That if he ran for consul, he would never Appear in the marketplace or wear The simple clothes of humility; Nor, as the custom is, show his wounds To the people, begging for their sympathy.
’Tis right.
That’s true.
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.
It was his word: oh, he would rather Miss the chance than take it, unless it was pushed on him By the influence of the nobles.
I wish no better Than have him hold that purpose and to put it In execution.
I hope nothing better Than for him to stick to that intention and carry it Through.
’Tis most like he will.
It seems most likely that he will.
It shall be to him then as our good wills, A sure destruction.
If he does, it will be a destruction That we can support with our goodwill.
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.
So it must happen To him or to our authority. In the end, We must remind the people of the hatred He has always had for them; that he would Have turned them into mules, silenced their voices, and Taken away their freedom, treating them, In their actions and abilities, As if they had no more worth or purpose than camels in war, who are only there To carry burdens, and take blows For collapsing under the weight.
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.
This, as you said, will be suggested At a time when his arrogance Will provoke the people--and that time will come, If he’s forced into it; and that’s as easy As setting dogs on sheep--it will be the spark To ignite their fury, and their rage Will destroy him forever.
What’s the matter?
What’s happening?
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, Upon him as he pass’d: the nobles bended, As to Jove’s statue, and the commons made A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts: I never saw the like.
You’ve been called to the Capitol. It’s believed That Marcius will be consul: I’ve seen the mute people crowding to see him and The blind listening to his speeches: women threw gloves, Ladies and maids threw scarves and handkerchiefs, On him as he passed: the nobles bowed, Like to Jove’s statue, and the common people made A storm of applause with their hats and cheers: I’ve never seen anything like it.
Let’s to the Capitol; And carry with us ears and eyes for the time, But hearts for the event.
Let’s go to the Capitol; And we’ll bring our ears and eyes for the moment, But our hearts for what happens next.
Have with you.
Let’s go.