The general suit of Rome; never admitted
A private whisper, no, not with such friends
That thought them sure of you.

Cor.

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, too: fresh embassies, and suits,
Nor from the state, nor private friends, hereafter
Will I lend ear to. - Ha! what shout is this?
Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow
In the same time 't is made? I will not.

[Shout within.

Enter, in mourning Habits, VIRGILIA, VOLUMNIA, leading young MARCIUS, VALERIA, and Attendants.

My wife comes foremost; then, the honour'd mould
Wherein this trunk was fram'd, and in her hand
The grand-child 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?

Of stronger earth than others.

As if Olympus to a molehill should

I melt, and am not

My mother bows,

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.

Vir.

My lord and husband!

Cor. These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome.
Vir. The sorrow, that delivers us thus chang'd,

Makes you think so.
Cor.

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."
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,

O! a kiss

And the most noble mother of the world

Leave unsaluted. Sink, my knee, i' the earth;

[Kneels.

Of thy deep duty more impression show

Vol.

O, stand up bless'd!

Than that of common sons.

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.

Cor.

[Kneels.

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,

Murd'ring impossibility, to make

What cannot be, slight work.

Vol.

Thou art my warrior;

I help to frame thee. Do you know this lady?
Cor. The noble sister of Publicola,
The moon of Rome; chaste as the icicle,
That's curded by the frost from purest snow,
And hangs on Dian's temple: dear Valeria!

Vol. This is a poor epitome of yours,
Which, by the interpretation of full time,
May show like all yourself.

Cor.

The god of soldiers,

With the consent of supreme Jove, inform

Thy thoughts with nobleness; that thou may'st prove

To shame unvulnerable, and stick i' the wars

Like a great sea-mark, standing every flaw,

And saving those that eye thee!

Vol.

Your knee, sirrah.

Cor. That's my brave boy!
Vol. Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself,

Are suitors to you.
Cor.

I beseech you, peace;
Or, if you 'd ask, remember this before;
The things I have forsworn to grant may never
Be held by your 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.

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.

Cor. Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark; for we'll Hear nought from Rome in private. - Your request?

Vol. 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 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.

Vir.

Ay, and mine,

That brought you forth this boy, to keep your name
Living to time.

Boy.

He shall not tread on me:

I 'll run away till I am bigger, but then I'll fight.

Cor. Not of a woman's tenderness to be,

Requires nor child nor woman's face to see.

I have sat too long.

Vol.

[Rising.

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 is 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 us.
This boy, that cannot tell what he would have,