Act IVScene I
Rome. Before a gate of the city
Enter Coriolanus, Volumnia, Virgilia, Menenius, Cominius with the young nobility of Rome.
Coriolanus
Come, leave your tears. A brief farewell. The beastWith many heads butts me away. Nay, mother,Where is your ancient courage? You were usedTo say extremities was the trier of spirits;That common chances common men could bear;That when the sea was calm, all boats alikeShowed mastership in floating; fortune’s blowsWhen most struck home, being gentle wounded cravesA noble cunning. You were used to load meWith precepts that would make invincibleThe heart that conned them.
Virgilia
O heavens! O heavens!
Coriolanus
Nay, I prithee, woman—
Volumnia
Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome,And occupations perish!
Coriolanus
What, what, what!I shall be loved when I am lacked. Nay, mother,Resume that spirit when you were wont to sayIf you had been the wife of Hercules,Six of his labours you’d have done and savedYour 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’sAnd venomous to thine eyes.—My sometime general,I have seen thee stern, and thou hast oft beheldHeart-hard’ning spectacles. Tell these sad women’Tis fond to wail inevitable strokesAs ’tis to laugh at ’em.—My mother, you wot wellMy hazards still have been your solace, and—Believe’t not lightly—though I go alone,Like to a lonely dragon that his fenMakes feared and talked of more than seen, your sonWill or exceed the common or be caughtWith cautelous baits and practice.
Volumnia
My first son,Whither wilt thou go? Take good CominiusWith thee awhile. Determine on some courseMore than a wild exposture to each chanceThat starts i’ th’ way before thee.
Virgilia
O the gods!
Cominius
I’ll follow thee a month, devise with theeWhere thou shalt rest, that thou mayst hear of usAnd we of thee; so if the time thrust forthA cause for thy repeal, we shall not sendO’er the vast world to seek a single manAnd lose advantage, which doth ever coolI’ th’ absence of the needer.
Coriolanus
Fare ye well.Thou hast years upon thee, and thou art too fullOf the wars’ surfeits to go rove with oneThat’s yet unbruised. Bring me but out at gate.—Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, andMy friends of noble touch. When I am forth,Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you, come.While I remain above the ground, you shallHear from me still, and never of me aughtBut what is like me formerly.
Menenius
That’s worthilyAs any ear can hear. Come, let’s not weep.If I could shake off but one seven yearsFrom these old arms and legs, by the good gods,I’d with thee every foot.
Coriolanus
Give me thy hand.Come.
Exeunt.