Original
Modern English
No, I’ll not go: you hear what he hath said Which was sometime his general; who loved him In a most dear particular. He call’d me father: But what o’ that? Go, you that banish’d him; A mile before his tent fall down, and knee The way into his mercy: nay, if he coy’d To hear Cominius speak, I’ll keep at home.
No, I won’t go: you heard what he said When he was once our general; the one who cared for him In a very personal way. He called me father: But what about that? Go, you who banished him; Go a mile before his tent, fall on your knees, And beg for his mercy: no, if he refused To listen to Cominius, I’ll stay here.
He would not seem to know me.
He wouldn’t even pretend to know me.
Do you hear?
Did you hear that?
Yet one time he did call me by my name: I urged our old acquaintance, and the drops That we have bled together. Coriolanus He would not answer to: forbad all names; He was a kind of nothing, titleless, Till he had forged himself a name o’ the fire Of burning Rome.
There was a time he did call me by my name: I reminded him of our old friendship, and the times We bled together. Coriolanus Wouldn’t respond: he rejected all names; He was like a nobody, without a title, Until he created his own name from the flames Of burning Rome.
Why, so: you have made good work! A pair of tribunes that have rack’d for Rome, To make coals cheap,--a noble memory!
Well, that’s great: you’ve really done something good! A pair of tribunes who’ve tortured Rome, To make coal cheaper,--a proud achievement!
I minded him how royal ’twas to pardon When it was less expected: he replied, It was a bare petition of a state To one whom they had punish’d.
I tried to remind him how noble it is to forgive When it’s least expected: he answered, That it was just a mere request from a state To someone they had already punished.
Very well: Could he say less?
Well said: Could he have said any less?
I offer’d to awaken his regard For’s private friends: his answer to me was, He could not stay to pick them in a pile Of noisome musty chaff: he said ’twas folly, For one poor grain or two, to leave unburnt, And still to nose the offence.
I tried to stir his sense of loyalty To his personal friends: his reply was, He couldn’t waste time picking them out of a pile Of disgusting, rotting straw: he said it was foolish, To save one or two poor grains, when he could burn them all, And still smell the stench of the offense.
For one poor grain or two! I am one of those; his mother, wife, his child, And this brave fellow too, we are the grains: You are the musty chaff; and you are smelt Above the moon: we must be burnt for you.
One or two poor grains! I’m one of those; his mother, wife, and child, And this brave man too, we’re the grains: You’re the rotten straw; and your smell Is stronger than the moon’s: we must be burned for you.
Nay, pray, be patient: if you refuse your aid In this so never-needed help, yet do not Upbraid’s with our distress. But, sure, if you Would be your country’s pleader, your good tongue, More than the instant army we can make, Might stop our countryman.
Please, be patient: if you refuse to help us In this urgent need, don’t reproach us with our suffering. But surely, if you Were the one to speak for our country, your voice, More than the army we could summon, Could stop our countryman.
No, I’ll not meddle.
No, I won’t get involved.
Pray you, go to him.
Please, go to him.
What should I do?
What should I do?
Only make trial what your love can do For Rome, towards Marcius.
Just test how far your love for Rome can go When it comes to Marcius.
Well, and say that Marcius Return me, as Cominius is return’d, Unheard; what then? But as a discontented friend, grief-shot With his unkindness? say’t be so?
Fine, but let’s say Marcius Comes back to me, just like Cominius came back, Without being heard—what then? Will he be just a disappointed friend, hurt By his own unkindness? Should I say that’s what happened?
Yet your good will must have that thanks from Rome, after the measure As you intended well.
Even so, your good intentions Will still get thanks from Rome, as long as you did mean well.
I’ll undertake ’t: I think he’ll hear me. Yet, to bite his lip And hum at good Cominius, much unhearts me. He was not taken well; he had not dined: The veins unfill’d, our blood is cold, and then We pout upon the morning, are unapt To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff’d These and these conveyances of our blood With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls Than in our priest-like fasts: therefore I’ll watch him Till he be dieted to my request, And then I’ll set upon him.
I’ll take it on: I think he’ll listen to me. Still, to bite my lip And mock good Cominius really discourages me. He wasn’t feeling well; he hadn’t eaten yet: When our blood is low, we get cold and grumpy, and then We sulk in the morning, are too irritable To give or forgive; but once we’ve filled up Our stomachs with food and wine, we’re more flexible Than when we’re fasting like priests: so I’ll keep an eye on him Until he’s in the right condition to hear my request, And then I’ll go after him.
You know the very road into his kindness, And cannot lose your way.
You know exactly how to win his favor, So you won’t lose your way.
Good faith, I’ll prove him, Speed how it will. I shall ere long have knowledge Of my success.
I swear, I’ll prove him wrong, No matter what happens. I’ll soon know Whether I’ve been successful.
He’ll never hear him.
He’ll never listen to him.
Not?
Really?
I tell you, he does sit in gold, his eye Red as ’twould burn Rome; and his injury The gaoler to his pity. I kneel’d before him; ’Twas very faintly he said ’Rise;’ dismiss’d me Thus, with his speechless hand: what he would do, He sent in writing after me; what he would not, Bound with an oath to yield to his conditions: So that all hope is vain. Unless his noble mother, and his wife; Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him For mercy to his country. Therefore, let’s hence, And with our fair entreaties haste them on.
I’m telling you, he’s sitting in luxury, his gaze As fiery as if it could burn down Rome; and his anger Is like a jailer to his compassion. I knelt before him; He barely said ‘Rise’; he dismissed me Like this, with a silent hand: whatever he would do, He wrote it down for me; whatever he wouldn’t do, He swore an oath not to give in to his conditions: So all hope is lost. Unless his noble mother, and his wife; Who, from what I hear, plan to plead with him To show mercy to his country. So, let’s go, And quickly urge them to act.