The Complete Tragedies of William Shakespeare - All 12 Books in One Edition. William Shakespeare
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VOLUMNIA. On’s brows: Menenius, he comes the third time home with the oaken garland.
MENENIUS.
Has he disciplined Aufidius soundly?
VOLUMNIA. Titus Lartius writes,—they fought together, but Aufidius got off.
MENENIUS. 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?
VOLUMNIA. 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.
VALERIA.
In troth, there’s wondrous things spoke of him.
MENENIUS.
Wondrous! ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing.
VIRGILIA.
The gods grant them true!
VOLUMNIA.
True! pow, wow.
MENENIUS. True! I’ll be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded?—[To the TRIBUNES, who come forward.] God save your good worships! Marcius is coming home; he has more cause to be proud.—Where is he wounded?
VOLUMNIA.
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.
MENENIUS. One i’ the neck and two i’ the thigh,—there’s nine that I know.
VOLUMNIA.
He had, before this last expedition, twenty-five wounds upon him.
MENENIUS.
Now it’s twenty-seven: every gash was an enemy’s grave.
[A shout and flourish.]
Hark! the trumpets.
VOLUMNIA.
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 advanc’d, declines, and then men die.
[A sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter COMINIUS and TITUS LARTIUS; between them, CORIOLANUS, crowned with an oaken garland; with CAPTAINS and Soldiers and a HERALD.]
HERALD.
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!
[Flourish.]
ALL.
Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!
CORIOLANUS.
No more of this, it does offend my heart;
Pray now, no more.
COMINIUS.
Look, sir, your mother!
CORIOLANUS.
O,
You have, I know, petition’d all the gods
For my prosperity!
[Kneels.]
VOLUMNIA.
Nay, my good soldier, up;
My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and
By deed-achieving honour newly nam’d,—
What is it?—Coriolanus must I call thee?
But, O, thy wife!
CORIOLANUS.
My gracious silence, hail!
Wouldst thou have laugh’d had I come coffin’d home,
That weep’st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear,
Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear,
And mothers that lack sons.
MENENIUS.
Now the gods crown thee!
CORIOLANUS.
And live you yet? [To VALERIA]—O my sweet lady, pardon.
VOLUMNIA. I know not where to turn.—O, welcome home;—and welcome, general;—and you are welcome all.
MENENIUS.
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.
COMINIUS.
Ever right.
CORIOLANUS.
Menenius ever, ever.
HERALD.
Give way there, and go on!
CORIOLANUS.
[To his wife and mother.] Your hand, and yours:
Ere in our own house I do shade my head,
The good patricians must be visited;
From whom I have receiv’d not only greetings,
But with them change of honours.
VOLUMNIA.
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.
CORIOLANUS.
Know, good mother,
I had rather be their servant in my way
Than sway with them in theirs.
COMINIUS.
On, to the Capitol.
[Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before. The tribunes remain.]
BRUTUS.
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,
Clamb’ring the walls to eye him: stalls, bulks, windows,
Are smother’d up, leads fill’d and ridges hors’d
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: our 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