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wife, this lady, and myself,

       Are suitors to you.

       CORIOLANUS.

       I beseech you, peace:

       Or, if you’d 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 allay my rages and revenges with

       Your colder reasons.

       VOLUMNIA.

       O, no more, no more!

       You have said you will not grant us anything;

       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.

       CORIOLANUS.

       Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark: for we’ll

       Hear nought from Rome in private.—Your request?

       VOLUMNIA.

       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 through 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 can not 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.

       VIRGILIA.

       Ay, and mine,

       That brought you forth this boy, to keep your name

       Living to time.

       BOY.

       ‘A shall not tread on me;

       I’ll run away till I am bigger; but then I’ll fight.

       CORIOLANUS.

       Not of a woman’s tenderness to be,

       Requires nor child nor woman’s face to see.

       I have sat too long.

       [Rising.]

       VOLUMNIA.

       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 receiv’d,’ and each in either side

       Give the all-hail to thee, and cry, ‘Be bless’d

       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 wip’d 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 hands 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 despatch:

      

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