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We will before the walls of Rome tomorrow Set down our host. My partner in this action, You must report to the Volscian lords, how plainly I have borne this business.
Tomorrow, we’ll camp outside the walls of Rome. My partner in this mission, you must report to the Volscian lords how clearly I’ve handled this matter.
Only their ends You have respected; stopp’d your ears against The general suit of Rome; never admitted A private whisper, no, not with such friends That thought them sure of you.
You’ve only cared about their goals, shut your ears to Rome’s general request; never listened to a private whisper, not even from those friends who thought they could count on you.
This last old man, Whom with a crack’d heart I have sent to Rome, Loved me above the measure of a father; Nay, godded me, indeed. Their latest refuge Was to send him; for whose old love I have, Though I show’d sourly to him, once more offer’d The first conditions, which they did refuse And cannot now accept; to grace him only That thought he could do more, a very little I have yielded to: fresh embassies and suits, Nor from the state nor private friends, hereafter Will I lend ear to. Ha! what shout is this?
This last old man, Whom with a broken heart I sent to Rome, Loved me more than a father ever could; In fact, he treated me like a god. Their final hope Was to send him; for his old love, I have, even though I acted harshly toward him, once again offered the initial terms, which they rejected and now can’t accept; to honor him only I’ve given in just a little. I will no longer listen to new embassies or requests, neither from the state nor private friends. Ha! What shout is this?
Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow In the same time ’tis made? I will not.
Should I be tempted to break my vow just because it’s newly made? I will not.
My wife comes foremost; then the honour’d mould Wherein this trunk was framed, and in her hand The grandchild to her blood. But, out, affection! All bond and privilege of nature, break! Let it be virtuous to be obstinate. What is that curt’sy worth? or those doves’ eyes, Which can make gods forsworn? I melt, and am not Of stronger earth than others. My mother bows; As if Olympus to a molehill should In supplication nod: and my young boy Hath an aspect of intercession, which Great nature cries ’Deny not.’ let the Volsces Plough Rome and harrow Italy: I’ll never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand, As if a man were author of himself And knew no other kin.
My wife comes first; then the honored ground Where this body was shaped, and in her hand The grandchild of her family. But, no, forget love! All ties and privileges of nature, break! Let it be a virtue to be stubborn. What’s the point of that curtsy? Or those eyes like doves, Which can make gods lie? I weaken, but I am no Stronger than others. My mother bows; As if Olympus itself should bow down to a molehill In supplication: and my young boy Has a look of pleading, which Great nature herself says ‘Don’t deny him.’ Let the Volscians Plow Rome and harrow Italy: I’ll never Be such a fool to obey instinct, but stand, As if I were the author of my own life And had no other kin.
My lord and husband!
My lord and husband!
These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome.
These eyes aren’t the same ones I had in Rome.
The sorrow that delivers us thus changed Makes you think so.
The sorrow that has changed us like this Makes you think that.
Like a dull actor now, I have forgot my part, and I am out, Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh, Forgive my tyranny; but do not say For that ’Forgive our Romans.’ O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge! Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear; and my true lip Hath virgin’d it e’er since. You gods! I prate, And the most noble mother of the world Leave unsaluted: sink, my knee, i’ the earth;
Like a bad actor now, I’ve forgotten my role, and I’m out, Even to complete disgrace. Best of my flesh, Forgive my cruelty; but don’t say ‘Forgive our Romans.’ Oh, a kiss As long as my exile, as sweet as my revenge! Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss I took from you, dear; and my true lips Have kept it sacred ever since. You gods! I talk too much, And the noblest mother of the world Goes unacknowledged: let my knee sink into the earth;
Of thy deep duty more impression show Than that of common sons.
Show more respect through your deep duty Than the duty of common sons.
O, stand up blest! Whilst, with no softer cushion than the flint, I kneel before thee; and unproperly Show duty, as mistaken all this while Between the child and parent.
Oh, stand up blessed! While, with no softer cushion than the hard ground, I kneel before you; and improperly Show respect, as if all this time There was confusion between child and parent.
What is this? Your knees to me? to your corrected son? Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach Fillip the stars; then let the mutinous winds Strike the proud cedars ’gainst the fiery sun; Murdering impossibility, to make What cannot be, slight work.
What is this? Your knees to me? To your corrected son? Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach Flick the stars; then let the rebellious winds Strike the proud cedars against the burning sun; Making the impossible possible.
Thou art my warrior; I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady?
You are my warrior; I helped raise you. Do you know this lady?
The noble sister of Publicola, The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle That’s curdied by the frost from purest snow And hangs on Dian’s temple: dear Valeria!
The noble sister of Publicola, The moon of Rome, pure as the icicle Formed by frost from the cleanest snow And hangs on Diana’s temple: dear Valeria!
This is a poor epitome of yours, Which by the interpretation of full time May show like all yourself.
This is a poor image of yourself, Which, with time’s full interpretation, May show you exactly as you are.
The god of soldiers, With the consent of supreme Jove, inform Thy thoughts with nobleness; that thou mayst prove To shame unvulnerable, and stick i’ the wars Like a great sea-mark, standing every flaw, And saving those that eye thee!
The god of soldiers, With the consent of supreme Jove, fill Your thoughts with nobility; that you may stand Untouched by shame, and remain in the wars Like a great landmark, withstanding every storm, And saving those who see you!
Your knee, sirrah.
Your knee, my son.
That’s my brave boy!
That’s my brave boy!
Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself, Are suitors to you.
Even he, your wife, this lady, and I Are all asking for your help.
I beseech you, peace: Or, if you’ld ask, remember this before: The thing I have forsworn to grant may never Be held by you denials. Do not bid me Dismiss my soldiers, or capitulate Again with Rome’s mechanics: tell me not Wherein I seem unnatural: desire not To ally my rages and revenges with Your colder reasons.
I beg you, stay calm: Or, if you must ask, remember this first: I cannot grant what I have sworn never to give, So don’t try to deny me. Don’t ask me To send away my soldiers or make peace Again with Rome’s common people. Don’t tell me How I seem cruel or unnatural. Don’t ask me To cool my anger and vengeance to match Your calmer, more logical reasoning.
O, no more, no more! You have said you will not grant us any thing; For we have nothing else to ask, but that Which you deny already: yet we will ask; That, if you fail in our request, the blame May hang upon your hardness: therefore hear us.
Oh, no more, please, no more! You’ve already said you won’t give us anything, And we have nothing else to ask for Except the one thing you’ve already denied. But still, we’ll ask, So that if you refuse our request, the blame Will rest on your stubbornness. So please, hear us out.
Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark; for we’ll Hear nought from Rome in private. Your request?
Aufidius, and you Volsces, listen carefully; we won’t Hear anything from Rome in secret. What is your request?
Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment And state of bodies would bewray what life We have led since thy exile. Think with thyself How more unfortunate than all living women Are we come hither: since that thy sight, which should Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with comforts, Constrains them weep and shake with fear and sorrow; Making the mother, wife and child to see The son, the husband and the father tearing His country’s bowels out. And to poor we 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 thorough 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.
If we stayed silent and didn’t speak, our clothes And the state of our bodies would show the hard life We’ve lived since you were exiled. Think for a moment How much more unfortunate we are than any other women To have come here like this. Your sight, which should Make our eyes overflow with joy and fill our hearts With comfort, instead forces us to weep And tremble with fear and sorrow. You force the mother, wife, and child to see The son, husband, and father tearing apart His own country. And for us, your deepest hatred Is most painful. You even take away our right To pray to the gods—a comfort everyone else Can enjoy, but not us. For how can we, How can we pray for our country’s safety, When your victory would destroy it, and we are bound To both? Are we bound to such a choice? Alas, we must either lose Our country, which has nurtured us, or lose you, Our source of comfort in that country. No matter What we wish for, disaster is certain: whichever side wins, There will be great suffering. For either you must Be dragged through our streets in chains as a traitor, Or triumph over your country’s destruction, Claiming victory for spilling the blood of your wife and children. As for me, my son, I will not wait for fate to decide The outcome of this war. If I cannot persuade you To show kindness and honor to both sides Instead of seeking to destroy one, then know this: The moment you march to attack your country, You will not step forward without stepping on your mother’s body, The one who gave you life. Trust me, it will not happen.
Ay, and mine, That brought you forth this boy, to keep your name Living to time.
Yes, and mine as well, The one who bore you this son, to carry on your name And keep it alive through the ages.
A’ shall not tread on me; I’ll run away till I am bigger, but then I’ll fight.
He won’t step on me; I’ll run away until I’m bigger, but then I’ll fight him.
Not of a woman’s tenderness to be, Requires nor child nor woman’s face to see. I have sat too long.
To act without a woman’s tenderness, One must not look at a child or a woman’s face. I have stayed here too long.
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, ’This we received;’ and each in either side Give the all-hail to thee and cry ’Be blest 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 wiped 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? Daughter, speak you: He cares not for your weeping. Speak thou, boy: Perhaps thy childishness will move him more Than can our reasons. There’s no man in the world More bound to ’s mother; yet here he lets me prate Like one i’ the stocks. 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 ’s: This boy, that cannot tell what he would have But kneels and holds up bands 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 dispatch: I am hush’d until our city be a-fire, And then I’ll speak a little.
No, don’t leave us like this. If our request were truly to save the Romans, only to destroy The Volsces you serve, you could condemn us, As being harmful to your honor. But no, our plea Is for you to bring them together: let the Volsces say, ‘This mercy we have shown,’ And the Romans, ‘This we have received.’ And each side, in turn, Shall honor you and cry, ‘Be blessed for making peace!’ You know, great son, that the outcome of war is uncertain, but this is certain: If you conquer Rome, the only reward you’ll gain is a name, A name that will be followed by curses; The story will be written this way: ‘He was noble, But with his final act, he ruined it all; Destroyed his country, and his name will be Hated by all generations to come.’ Speak to me, son: You have been moved by the noble ideals of honor, To imitate the gods’ graces, To tear the skies with thunder, And yet to aim your power so weakly, with a bolt That could only strike an oak. Why do you not speak? Do you think it honorable for a noble man To always dwell on past wrongs? Daughter, speak for us: He doesn’t care for your weeping. Speak, boy: Perhaps your childish words will move him more Than our reasoning. There’s no man in the world More indebted to his mother; yet here he lets me talk As if I were a prisoner. You’ve never, in all your life, Shown your dear mother any kindness, When she, poor thing, without hope of another child, Sent you off to war and brought you safely back, Loaded with honor. If you say my request is unfair, And turn me away, then you are not honest; the gods will punish you, For denying me the duty that a mother deserves. He turns away. Ladies, kneel before him; let us shame him. His pride as Coriolanus is greater than any pity for our prayers. Kneel, it’s over now. We’ll go back to Rome and die among our neighbors. Look at this: This boy, who doesn’t even know what he wants, But kneels and holds up his hands for pity, Makes our plea more powerful than your refusal. Let’s go: This man had a Volscian for a mother, His wife is in Corioli, and his child is like him by chance. But give us what we ask: I’ll stay silent until our city burns, And then I’ll speak a little more.
O mother, mother! What have you done? 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?
Oh mother, mother! What have you done? Look, the heavens open, The gods look down, and they laugh at this unnatural scene. Oh, my mother, mother! Oh! You have won a great victory for Rome, But for your son—believe me, oh, believe me, You have dangerously triumphed over him, If not fatally. But, let it happen. Aufidius, though I cannot wage real wars, I’ll make a reasonable peace. Now, good Aufidius, If you were in my place, would you have heard A mother less? Or granted her less, Aufidius?
I was moved withal.
I was moved by that.
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!
I can swear you were moved by it. And, sir, it’s no small thing to make My eyes shed tears of compassion. But, good sir, What peace will you create? Please, advise me. As for me, I won’t go to Rome; I’ll return with you. And I ask you, Stand by me in this cause. Oh mother! Wife!
[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.
[Aside] I’m glad that you’ve placed your mercy and your honor in conflict with each other. From that, I’ll create my own fortune once again.
Ay, by and by;
Ay, by and by;
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.
But we will drink together; and you shall carry A stronger proof back than words, which we, Under similar conditions, will have sealed as well. Come, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve To have a temple built in your honor: all the swords In Italy, and her allied forces, Could not have achieved this peace.