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.