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 truth, 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? Pooh-whoo!

MENENIUS True? I’ll be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded? (To the tribunes) God save your good worships. Martius is coming home. He has more cause to be proud. (To Volumnia) Where is he wounded?

VOLUMNIA I‘th’ shoulder and i’th’ 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’th’ body.

MENENIUS One i‘th’ neck and two i’th’ 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 Martius. Before him he carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears. Death, that dark spirit, in’s nervy arm doth lie, Which being advanced, declines; and then men die.

Trumpets sound a sennet. Enter ⌈in state⌉ Cominius the general and Lartius, between them Coriolanus, crowned with an oaken garland, with captains and soldiers and a Herald

HERALD

Know, Rome, that all alone Martius did fight

Within Corioles’ gates, where he hath won 160

With fame a name to ‘Martius Caius’; these

In honour follows ‘Coriolanus’.

Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!

A flourish sounds

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 (to Volumnia) O,

You have, I know, petitioned all the gods

For my prosperity!

He kneels

VOLUMNIA

Nay, my good soldier, up,

My gentle Martius, worthy Caius,

⌈He rises⌉

And, by deed-achieving honour newly named—

What is it?—’Coriolanus’ must I call thee?

But O, thy wife!

CORIOLANUS (to Virgilia) My gracious silence, hail.

Wouldst thou have laughed had I come coffined

home,

That weep’st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear,

Such eyes the widows in Corioles wear,

And mothers that lack sons.

MENENIUS

Now the gods crown thee!

⌈CORIOLANUS⌉ to Valeria)

And live you yet? O my sweet lady, pardon.

VOLUMNIA

I know not where to turn. O, welcome home!

And welcome, general, and you’re welcome all!

MENENIUS

A hundred thousand welcomes! I could weep

And I could laugh, I am light and heavy. Welcome!

A curse begnaw 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 Volumnia and Virgilia⌉

Your hand, and yours.

Ere in our own house I do shade my head

The good patricians must be visited,

From whom I have received 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.

A flourish of cornetts. Exeunt in state, as before, all but Brutus and Sicinius, who come forward

BRUTUS

All tongues speak of him, and the blearèd 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 smothered up, leads filled and ridges horsed

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 veiled dames

Commit the war of white and damask in

Their nicely guarded cheeks to th’ wanton spoil

Of Phoebus’ burning kisses. Such a pother

As if that whatsoever god who leads him

Were slily crept into his human powers

And gave him graceful posture.

SICINIUS On the sudden

I warrant him consul.

BRUTUS Then our office may

During his power go sleep.

SICINIUS

He cannot temp’rately transport his honours

From where he should begin and end, but will

Lose those he hath won.

BRUTUS In that there’s comfort.

SICINIUS Doubt not

The commoners, for whom we stand, but they

Upon their ancient malice will forget

With the least cause these his new honours, which

That he will give them make I as little question

As he is proud to do’t.

BRUTUS I heard him swear,

Were he to stand for consul, never would he

Appear i’th’ market-place nor on him put

The napless vesture of humility,

Nor, showing, as the manner is, his wounds

To th’ people, beg their stinking breaths.

SICINIUS ’Tis right.

BRUTUS

It was his word. O, he would miss it rather

Than carry it, but by the suit of the gentry to him,

And the desire of the nobles.

SICINIUS I wish no better

Than have him hold that purpose, and to put it

In execution.