Though therein you can never be too noble,
But when extremities speak. I have heard you say,
Honour and policy, like unsevered friends,
I’th’ war do grow together. Grant that, and tell me
In peace what each of them by th’ other lose
That they combine not there.
CORIOLANUS
Tush, tush!
MENENIUS
A good demand.
VOLUMNIA
If it be honour in your wars to seem
The same you are not, which for your best ends
You adopt your policy, how is it less or worse
That it shall hold companionship in peace
With honour, as in war, since that to both
It stands in like request?
CORIOLANUS
Why force you this?
VOLUMNIA
Because that now it lies you on to speak to th’ people,
Not by your own instruction, nor by th’ matter
Which your heart prompts you, but with such words
That are but roted in your tongue, though but
Bastards and syllables of no allowance
To your bosom’s truth. Now this no more
Dishonours you at all than to take in
A town with gentle words, which else would put you
To your fortune and the hazard of much blood.
I would dissemble with my nature where
My fortunes and my friends at stake required
I should do so in honour. I am in this
Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles;
And you will rather show our general louts
How you can frown than spend a fawn upon ’em
For the inheritance of their loves and safeguard
Of what that want might ruin.
MENENIUS
Noble lady!
(To Coriolanus) Come, go with us, speak fair. You may
salve so,
Not what is dangerous present, but the loss
Of what is past.
VOLUMNIA
I prithee now, my son,
⌈She takes his bonnet⌉
Go to them with this bonnet in thy hand,
And thus far having stretched it—here be with
them—
Thy knee bussing the stones—for in such business
Action is eloquence, and the eyes of th’ ignorant
More learnèd than the ears—waving thy head,
With often, thus, correcting thy stout heart,
Now humble as the ripest mulberry
That will not hold the handling; or say to them
Thou art their soldier and, being bred in broils,
Hast not the soft way which, thou dost confess,
Were fit for thee to use as they to claim,
In asking their good loves; but thou wilt frame
Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs so far
As thou hast power and person.
MENENIUS (to Coriolanus) This but done
Even as she speaks, why, their hearts were yours;
For they have pardons, being asked, as free
As words to little purpose.
VOLUMNIA (to Coriolanus) Prithee now,
Go, and be ruled, although I know thou hadst rather
Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf
Than flatter him in a bower.
Enter Cominius
Here is Cominius.
COMINIUS
I have been i‘th’ market-place; and, sir, ’tis fit
You make strong party, or defend yourself
By calmness or by absence. All’s in anger.
MENENIUS
Only fair speech.
COMINIUS I think ’twill serve, if he
Can thereto frame his spirit.
VOLUMNIA He must, and will.
Prithee now, say you will, and go about it.
CORIOLANUS
Must I go show them my unbarbèd sconce?
Must I with my base tongue give to my noble heart
A lie that it must bear? Well, I will do’t.
Yet were there but this single plot to lose,
This mould of Martius they to dust should grind it
And throw’t against the wind. To th’ market-place.
You have put me now to such a part which never
I shall discharge to th’ life.
COMINIUS
Come, come, we’ll prompt you.
VOLUMNIA
I prithee now, sweet son, as thou hast said
My praises made thee first a soldier, so,
To have my praise for this, perform a part
Thou hast not done before.
CORIOLANUS
Well, I must do’t.
Away, my disposition; and possess me
Some harlot’s spirit! My throat of war be turned,
Which choired with my drum, into a pipe
Small as an eunuch or the virgin voice
That babies lull asleep! The smiles of knaves
Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboys’ tears take up
The glasses of my sight! A beggar’s tongue
Make motion through my lips, and my armed knees,
Who bowed but in my stirrup, bend like his
That hath received an alms! I will not do’t,
Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth,
And by my body’s action teach my mind
A most inherent baseness.
VOLUMNIA
At thy choice, then.
To beg of thee it is my more dishonour
Than thou of them. Come all to ruin. Let
Thy mother rather feel thy pride than fear
Thy dangerous stoutness, for I mock at death
With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list.
Thy valiantness was mine, thou sucked’st it from me,
But owe thy pride thyself.
CORIOLANUS
Pray be content.
Mother, I am going to the market-place.
Chide me no more. I’ll mountebank their loves,
Cog their hearts from them, and come home beloved
Of all the trades in Rome. Look, I am going.