Act 4 - Scene 1
Rome. Before a gate of the city.
Enter CORIOLANUS, VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, MENENIUS, COMINIUS, with the young Nobility of Rome
Come, leave your tears: a brief farewell: the beast
With many heads butts me away. Nay, mother,
is your ancient courage? you were used
To say extremity was the trier of spirits;
That common chances
common men could bear;
That when the sea was calm all boats alike
Show'd mastership in floating; fortune's
When most struck home, being gentle wounded, craves
A noble cunning: you were used to load
With precepts that would make invincible
The heart that conn'd them.
O heavens! O heavens!
Nay! prithee, woman,
Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome,
And occupations perish!
What, what, what!
I shall be loved when I am lack'd. Nay, mother.
Resume that spirit, when you were
wont to say,
If you had been the wife of Hercules,
Six of his labours you'ld have done, and saved
husband so much sweat. Cominius,
Droop not; adieu. Farewell, my wife, my mother:
I'll do well yet. Thou
old and true Menenius,
Thy tears are salter than a younger man's,
And venomous to thine eyes. My sometime
I have seen thee stem, and thou hast oft beheld
Heart-hardening spectacles; tell these sad women
fond to wail inevitable strokes,
As 'tis to laugh at 'em. My mother, you wot well
My hazards still have been
your solace: and
Believe't not lightlythough I go alone,
Like to a lonely dragon, that his fen
and talk'd of more than seenyour son
Will or exceed the common or be caught
With cautelous baits and
My first son.
Whither wilt thou go? Take good Cominius
With thee awhile: determine on some course,
than a wild exposture to each chance
That starts i' the way before thee.
O the gods!
I'll follow thee a month, devise with thee
Where thou shalt rest, that thou mayst hear of us
And we of
thee: so if the time thrust forth
A cause for thy repeal, we shall not send
O'er the vast world to seek a
And lose advantage, which doth ever cool
I' the absence of the needer.
Fare ye well:
Thou hast years upon thee; and thou art too full
Of the wars' surfeits, to go rove with one
yet unbruised: bring me but out at gate.
Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and
My friends of noble
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