White Rose, Getty Museum (Gardens), Malibu, California, USA (photo (c) Ulrike Boehm; all rights reserved)
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Oh, that Volumnia had been Hamlet's mother instead of Gertrude. Not only would Claudius not have stood a shred of a chance to entangle her in his poisonous schemes in the first place: even if he had somehow managed to sideline her for a while after having killed her husband and ascended the throne, it probably wouldn't have taken her long at all to reestablish herself in a position of influence and work against him (and much more efficiently so than Polonius could ever have worked for Claudius, at that); not to mention that Volumnia would very likely also have found a way to stir Hamlet into action and overcome his multiple doubts once and for all. Because although some in today's audiences may find her more dove-like daughter-in-law Virgilia, Coriolanus's wife, a more accessible and sympathetic character than the Iron Lady of latter-day Rome herself, there is no doubt that Volumnia embodies those virtues which both the Roman society and that of Shakespeare's times valued most highly ... in a man: valour, a shrewd, no-nonsense brand of intelligence and an exceptional knack for strategy, as well as psychological insight and the gift of diplomacy; a proud, forthright spirit as capable of bending the minds of others by sheer willpower and by the force of persuasion as by the acceptance of one's own utter humiliation (a humiliation, moreover, which must needs be tenfold graver in a woman than it could ever be in a man). And indeed, Volumnia's greatest success – or so it would be if a number of foolish men would not come to fatally cross her purposes after all – derives from her use of this very instance, her own and Virgilia's abject humiliation as women and as Coriolanus's wife and mother, in order to finally talk her son into peace-making (the very son, too, whom she had raised to be a warrior first and foremost). Thus, Volumnia is that rare creature combining the chief virtues traditionally associated with male characters (courage, pride, willpower, intelligence) with those traditionally sought in women (emotional insight and humility, or at least the ability to recognise when to swallow her pride and bank on its very opposite in order to achieve her aim): only in the "motherly warmth" department she does appear a little lacking for all her pride, willpower and courage, although she clearly does dote on Coriolanus. Volumnia would probably not laugh off Hamlet's reflections about life and death, justice and vengeance by virtue of the questions he is pondering in and of themselves; she might even agree on the necessity of asking those questions at some point or other in everybody's life. But she would greatly scoff at the conclusions reached by the Prince, and I doubt very much that any enterprises begun by her would ever see their currents turn awry and lose the name of action.
I pray you, daughter, sing, or express yourself in a more
comfortable sort; if my son were my husband, I should freelier
rejoice in that absence wherein he won honour than in the
embracements of his bed where he would show most love. When yet
he was but tender-bodied, and the only son of my womb; when youth
with comeliness pluck'd all gaze his way; when, for a day of
kings' entreaties, a mother should not sell him an hour from her
beholding; I, – considering how honour would become such a person;
that it was no better than picture-like to hang by th' wall if
renown made it not stir; – was pleased to let him seek danger
where he was to find fame. To a cruel war I sent him; from whence
he returned his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, I
sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child than
now in first seeing he had proved himself a man.
But had he died in the business, madam? how then?
Then his good report should have been my son; I therein
would have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely, – had I a dozen
sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear than thine and my
good Marcius, I had rather had eleven die nobly for their country
than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.
Madam, the Lady Valeria is come to visit you.
Beseech you, give me leave to retire myself.
Indeed you shall not.
Methinks I hear hither your husband's drum;
See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair;
As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him:
Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus: –
'Come on, you cowards! you were got in fear
Though you were born in Rome:' his bloody brow
With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes,
Like to a harvest-man that's tasked to mow
Or all, or lose his hire.
His bloody brow! O Jupiter, no blood!
Away, you fool! It more becomes a man
Than gilt his trophy: the breasts of Hecuba,
When she did suckle Hector, looked not lovelier
Than Hector's forehead when it spit forth blood
At Grecian swords contending. – Tell Valeria
We are fit to bid her welcome.
Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius!
He'll beat Aufidius' head below his knee,
And tread upon his neck.
My ladies both, good-day to you.
Sweet madam.
I am glad to see your ladyship.
How do you both? you are manifest housekeepers. What are
you sewing here? A fine spot, in good faith. – How does your
little son?
I thank your ladyship; well, good madam.
He had rather see the swords and hear a drum than look upon his
schoolmaster.
O' my word, the father's son: I'll swear 'tis a very pretty boy.
O' my troth, I looked upon him o' Wednesday, half an hour
together: has such a confirmed countenance. I saw him run after a
gilded butterfly; and when he caught it he let it go again; and
after it again; and over and over he comes, and up again; catched
it again; or whether his fall enraged him, or how 'twas, he did
so set his teeth and tear it; O, I warrant, how he mammocked it!
One on's father's moods.
Indeed, la, 'tis a noble child.
A crack, madam.
Come, lay aside your stitchery; I must have you play the idle
huswife with me this afternoon.
No, good madam; I will not out of doors.
Not out of doors!
She shall, she shall.
Indeed, no, by your patience; I'll not over the threshold till my
lord return from the wars.
Fie, you confine yourself most unreasonably; come, you must go
visit the good lady that lies in.
I will wish her speedy strength, and visit her with my prayers;
but I cannot go thither.
Why, I pray you?
'Tis not to save labour, nor that I want love.
You would be another Penelope; yet they say all the yarn she spun
in Ulysses' absence did but fill Ithaca full of moths. Come; I
would your cambric were sensible as your finger, that you might
leave pricking it for pity. – Come, you shall go with us.
No, good madam, pardon me; indeed I will not forth.
In truth, la, go with me; and I'll tell you excellent news
of your husband.
O, good madam, there can be none yet.
Verily, I do not jest with you; there came news from him last
night.
Indeed, madam?
In earnest, it's true; I heard a senator speak it. Thus it
is: – the Volsces have an army forth; against whom Cominius the
general is gone, with one part of our Roman power: your lord and
Titus Lartius are set down before their city Corioli; they
nothing doubt prevailing, and to make it brief wars. This is
true, on mine honour; and so, I pray, go with us.
Give me excuse, good madam; I will obey you in everything
hereafter.
Let her alone, lady; as she is now, she will but disease our
better mirth.
In troth, I think she would. – Fare you well, then. – Come,
good sweet lady. – Pr'ythee, Virgilia, turn thy solemness out o'
door and go along with us.
No, at a word, madam; indeed I must not. I wish you much mirth.
Well then, farewell.
How now, my as fair as noble ladies, – and the moon, were she
earthly, no nobler, – whither do you follow your eyes so fast?
Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius approaches; for the love of
Juno, let's go.
Ha! Marcius coming home!
Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous approbation.
Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee. – Hoo! Marcius coming
home!
Nay, 'tis true.
Look, here's a letter from him: the state hath another,
his wife another; and I think there's one at home for you.
I will make my very house reel to-night. – A letter for me?
Yes, certain, there's a letter for you; I saw it.
A letter for me! It gives me an estate of seven years'
health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician: the
most sovereign prescription in Galen is but empiricutic, and, to
this preservative, of no better report than a horse-drench. Is he
not wounded? he was wont to come home wounded.
O, no, no, no.
O, he is wounded, I thank the gods for't.
So do I too, if it be not too much. – Brings a victory in
his pocket? – The wounds become him.
On's brows: Menenius, he comes the third time home with the oaken
garland.
Has he disciplined Aufidius soundly?
Titus Lartius writes, – they fought together, but Aufidius
got off.
And 'twas time for him too, I'll warrant him that: an he
had stayed by him, I would not have been so fidiused for all the
chests in Corioli and the gold that's in them. Is the Senate
possessed of this?
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.
In troth, there's wondrous things spoke of him.
Wondrous! ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing.
The gods grant them true!
True! pow, wow.
True! I'll be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded? –
God save your good worships! Marcius
is coming home; he has more cause to be proud. – Where is he
wounded?
I' the shoulder and i' the 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' the body.
One i' the neck and two i' the thigh, – there's nine that I
know.
He had, before this last expedition, twenty-five wounds upon him.
Now it's twenty-seven: every gash was an enemy's grave.
Hark! the trumpets.
These are the ushers of Marcius: before him
He carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears;
Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie;
Which, being advanc'd, declines, and then men die.
Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight
Within Corioli gates: where he hath won,
With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these
In honour follows Coriolanus: –
Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!
Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!
No more of this, it does offend my heart;
Pray now, no more.
Look, sir, your mother!
O,
You have, I know, petition'd all the gods
For my prosperity!
Nay, my good soldier, up;
My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and
By deed-achieving honour newly nam'd, –
What is it? – Coriolanus must I call thee?
But, O, thy wife!
My gracious silence, hail!
Wouldst thou have laugh'd had I come coffin'd home,
That weep'st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear,
Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear,
And mothers that lack sons.
Now the gods crown thee!
And live you yet?
– O my sweet lady, pardon.
I know not where to turn. – O, welcome home; – and welcome,
general; – and you are welcome all.
A hundred thousand welcomes. – I could weep
And I could laugh; I am light and heavy. – Welcome:
A curse begin 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.
Ever right.
Menenius ever, ever.
Give way there, and go on!
Your hand, and yours:
Ere in our own house I do shade my head,
The good patricians must be visited;
From whom I have receiv'd not only greetings,
But with them change of honours.
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.
Know, good mother,
I had rather be their servant in my way
Than sway with them in theirs.
On, to the Capitol.
Let them pull all about mine ears; present me
Death on the wheel, or at wild horses' heels;
Or pile ten hills on the Tarpeian rock,
That the precipitation might down stretch
Below the beam of sight; yet will I still
Be thus to them.
You do the nobler.
I muse my mother
Does not approve me further, who was wont
To call them woollen vassals, things created
To buy and sell with groats; to show bare heads
In congregations, to yawn, be still, and wonder,
When one but of my ordinance stood up
To speak of peace or war.
I talk of you:
Why did you wish me milder? Would you have me
False to my nature? Rather say, I play
The man I am.
O, sir, sir, sir,
I would have had you put your power well on
Before you had worn it out.
Let go.
You might have been enough the man you are
With striving less to be so: lesser had been
The thwartings of your dispositions, if
You had not show'd them how ye were dispos'd,
Ere they lack'd power to cross you.
Let them hang.
Ay, and burn too.
Come, come, you have been too rough, something too rough;
You must return and mend it.
There's no remedy;
Unless, by not so doing, our good city
Cleave in the midst, and perish.
Pray be counsell'd;
I have a heart as little apt as yours,
But yet a brain that leads my use of anger
To better vantage.
Well said, noble woman!
Before he should thus stoop to the herd, but that
The violent fit o' the time craves it as physic
For the whole state, I would put mine armour on,
Which I can scarcely bear.
What must I do?
Return to the tribunes.
Well, what then? what then?
Repent what you have spoke.
For them? – I cannot do it to the gods;
Must I then do't to them?
You are too absolute;
Though therein you can never be too noble
But when extremities speak. I have heard you say
Honour and policy, like unsever'd friends,
I' the war do grow together: grant that, and tell me
In peace what each of them by th' other lose
That they combine not there.
Tush, tush!
A good demand.
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?
Why force you this?
Because that now it lies you on to speak
To the people; not by your own instruction,
Nor by the matter which your heart prompts you,
But with such words that are but rooted 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 requir'd
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.
Noble lady! –
Come, go with us; speak fair: you may salve so,
Not what is dangerous present, but the loss
Of what is past.
I pr'ythee now, my son,
Go to them with this bonnet in thy hand;
And thus far having stretch'd it, – here be with them, –
Thy knee bussing the stones, – for in such business
Action is eloquence, and the eyes of the ignorant
More learned than the ears, – waving thy head,
Which 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.
This but done
Even as she speaks, why, their hearts were yours:
For they have pardons, being ask'd, as free
As words to little purpose.
Pr'ythee now,
Go, and be rul'd; although I know thou had'st rather
Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf
Than flatter him in a bower.
Here is Cominius.
I have been i' the market-place; and, sir, 'tis fit
You make strong party, or defend yourself
By calmness or by absence: all's in anger.
Only fair speech.
I think 'twill serve, if he
Can thereto frame his spirit.
He must, and will. –
Pr'ythee now, say you will, and go about it.
Must I go show them my unbarb'd 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 Marcius, they to dust should grind it,
And throw't against the wind. – To the market-place: –
You have put me now to such a part which never
I shall discharge to the life.
Come, come, we'll prompt you.
I pr'ythee 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.
Well, I must do't:
Away, my disposition, and possess me
Some harlot's spirit! My throat of war be turn'd,
Which quired with my drum, into a pipe
Small as an eunuch, or the virgin voice
That babies lulls asleep! the smiles of knaves
Tent in my cheeks; and school-boys' tears take up
The glasses of my sight! a beggar's tongue
Make motion through my lips; and my arm'd knees,
Who bow'd but in my stirrup, bend like his
That hath receiv'd 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.
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 suck'dst it from me;
But owe thy pride thyself.
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 belov'd
Of all the trades in Rome. Look, I am going.
Commend me to my wife. I'll return consul;
Or never trust to what my tongue can do
I' the way of flattery further.
Do your will.
Bid them all home; he's gone, and we'll no further. –
The nobility are vex'd, whom we see have sided
In his behalf.
Now we have shown our power,
Let us seem humbler after it is done
Than when it was a-doing.
Bid them home:
Say their great enemy is gone, and they
Stand in their ancient strength.
Dismiss them home.
Here comes his mother.
Let's not meet her.
Why?
They say she's mad.
They have ta'en note of us: keep on your way.
O, you're well met: the hoarded plague o' the gods
Requite your love!
Peace, peace, be not so loud.
If that I could for weeping, you should hear, –
Nay, and you shall hear some. –
Will you be gone?
You shall stay too.
I would I had the power
To say so to my husband.
Are you mankind?
Ay, fool; is that a shame? – Note but this, fool. –
Was not a man my father? Hadst thou foxship
To banish him that struck more blows for Rome
Than thou hast spoken words? –
O blessed heavens!
Moe noble blows than ever thou wise words;
And for Rome's good. – I'll tell thee what; – yet go; –
Nay, but thou shalt stay too: – I would my son
Were in Arabia, and thy tribe before him,
His good sword in his hand.
What then?
What then!
He'd make an end of thy posterity.
Bastards and all. – Good man, the wounds that he does bear for Rome!
Come, come, peace.
I would he had continu'd to his country
As he began, and not unknit himself
The noble knot he made.
I would he had.
I would he had! 'Twas you incens'd the rabble; –
Cats, that can judge as fitly of his worth
As I can of those mysteries which heaven
Will not have earth to know.
Pray, let us go.
Now, pray, sir, get you gone:
You have done a brave deed. Ere you go, hear this, –
As far as doth the Capitol exceed
The meanest house in Rome, so far my son, –
This lady's husband here; this, do you see? –
Whom you have banish'd does exceed you all.
Well, well, we'll leave you.
Why stay we to be baited
With one that wants her wits?
Take my prayers with you. –
I would the gods had nothing else to do
But to confirm my curses! Could I meet 'em
But once a day, it would unclog my heart
Of what lies heavy to't.
You have told them home,
And, by my troth, you have cause. You'll sup with me?
Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself,
And so shall starve with feeding. – Come, let's go:
Leave this faint puling and lament as I do,
In anger, Juno-like. Come, come, come.
We will before the walls of Rome to-morrow
Set down our host. – My partner in this action,
You must report to the Volscian lords how plainly
I have borne this business.
Only their ends
You have respected; stopped your ears against
The general suit of Rome; never admitted
A private whisper, no, not with such friends
That thought them sure of you.
This last old man,
Whom with crack'd heart I have sent to Rome,
Lov'd me above the measure of a father;
Nay, godded me indeed. Their latest refuge
Was to send him; for whose old love I have, –
Though I show'd sourly to him, – once more offer'd
The first conditions, which they did refuse,
And cannot now accept, to grace him only,
That thought he could do more, a very little
I have yielded to: fresh embassies and suits,
Nor from the state nor private friends, hereafter
Will I lend ear to. –
Ha! what shout is this?
Shall I be tempted to infringe my vow
In the same time 'tis made? I will not.
My wife comes foremost; then the honour'd mould
Wherein this trunk was fram'd, and in her hand
The grandchild to her blood. But, out, affection!
All bond and privilege of nature, break!
Let it be virtuous to be obstinate. –
What is that curt'sy worth? or those doves' eyes,
Which can make gods forsworn? – I melt, and am not
Of stronger earth than others. – My mother bows,
As if Olympus to a molehill should
In supplication nod: and my young boy
Hath an aspect of intercession which
Great nature cries "Deny not.' – Let the Volsces
Plough Rome and harrow Italy: I'll never
Be such a gosling to obey instinct; but stand,
As if a man were author of himself,
And knew no other kin.
My lord and husband!
These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome.
The sorrow that delivers us thus chang'd
Makes you think so.
Like a dull actor now,
I have forgot my part and I am out,
Even to a full disgrace. Best of my flesh,
Forgive my tyranny; but do not say,
For that, 'Forgive our Romans.' – O, a kiss
Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge;
Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss
I carried from thee, dear; and my true lip
Hath virgin'd it e'er since. – You gods! I prate,
And the most noble mother of the world
Leave unsaluted: sink, my knee, i' the earth;
Of thy deep duty more impression show
Than that of common sons.
O, stand up bless'd!
Whilst, with no softer cushion than the flint,
I kneel before thee; and unproperly
Show duty, as mistaken all this while
Between the child and parent.
What is this?
Your knees to me? to your corrected son?
Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach
Fillip the stars; then let the mutinous winds
Strike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun;
Murdering impossibility, to make
What cannot be, slight work.
Thou art my warrior;
I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady?
The noble sister of Publicola,
The moon of Rome; chaste as the icicle
That's curded by the frost from purest snow,
And hangs on Dian's temple: – dear Valeria!
This is a poor epitome of yours,
Which, by the interpretation of full time,
May show like all yourself.
The god of soldiers,
With the consent of supreme Jove, inform
Thy thoughts with nobleness; that thou mayst prove
To shame unvulnerable, and stick i' the wars
Like a great sea-mark, standing every flaw,
And saving those that eye thee!
Your knee, sirrah.
That's my brave
Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself,
Are suitors to you.
I beseech you, peace:
Or, if you'd ask, remember this before, –
The thing I have forsworn to grant may never
Be held by you denials. Do not bid me
Dismiss my soldiers, or capitulate
Again with Rome's mechanics. – Tell me not
Wherein I seem unnatural: desire not
To allay my rages and revenges with
Your colder reasons.
O, no more, no more!
You have said you will not grant us anything;
For we have nothing else to ask but that
Which you deny already: yet we will ask;
That, if you fail in our request, the blame
May hang upon your hardness; therefore hear us.
Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark: for we'll
Hear nought from Rome in private. – Your request?
Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment
And state of bodies would bewray what life
We have led since thy exile. Think with thyself,
How more unfortunate than all living women
Are we come hither: since that thy sight, which should
Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with comforts,
Constrains them weep, and shake with fear and sorrow;
Making the mother, wife, and child, to see
The son, the husband, and the father, tearing
His country's bowels out. And to poor we,
Thine enmity's most capital: thou barr'st us
Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort
That all but we enjoy; for how can we,
Alas, how can we for our country pray,
Whereto we are bound, – together with thy victory,
Whereto we are bound? alack, or we must lose
The country, our dear nurse, or else thy person,
Our comfort in the country. We must find
An evident calamity, though we had
Our wish, which side should win; for either thou
Must, as a foreign recreant, be led
With manacles through our streets, or else
Triumphantly tread on thy country's ruin,
And bear the palm for having bravely shed
Thy wife and children's blood. For myself, son,
I purpose not to wait on fortune till
These wars determine: if I can not persuade thee
Rather to show a noble grace to both parts
Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner
March to assault thy country than to tread, –
Trust to't, thou shalt not, – on thy mother's womb
That brought thee to this world.
Ay, and mine,
That brought you forth this boy, to keep your name
Living to time.
'A shall not tread on me;
I'll run away till I am bigger; but then I'll fight.
Not of a woman's tenderness to be,
Requires nor child nor woman's face to see.
I have sat too long.
Nay, go not from us thus.
If it were so that our request did tend
To save the Romans, thereby to destroy
The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn us,
As poisonous of your honour: no; our suit
Is that you reconcile them: while the Volsces
May say 'This mercy we have show'd,' the Romans
'This we receiv'd,' and each in either side
Give the all-hail to thee, and cry, 'Be bless'd
For making up this peace!' Thou know'st, great son,
The end of war's uncertain; but this certain,
That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit
Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name
Whose repetition will be dogg'd with curses;
Whose chronicle thus writ: – 'The man was noble,
But with his last attempt he wip'd it out;
Destroy'd his country, and his name remains
To the ensuing age abhorr'd.' Speak to me, son:
Thou hast affected the fine strains of honour,
To imitate the graces of the gods,
To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o' the air,
And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt
That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak?
Think'st thou it honourable for a noble man
Still to remember wrongs? – Daughter, speak you:
He cares not for your weeping. – Speak thou, boy:
Perhaps thy childishness will move him more
Than can our reasons. – There's no man in the world
More bound to's mother; yet here he lets me prate
Like one i' the stocks. Thou hast never in thy life
Show'd thy dear mother any courtesy;
When she, – poor hen, – fond of no second brood,
Has cluck'd thee to the wars, and safely home,
Loaden with honour. Say my request's unjust,
And spurn me back: but if it be not so,
Thou art not honest; and the gods will plague thee,
That thou restrain'st from me the duty which
To a mother's part belongs. – He turns away:
Down, ladies: let us shame him with our knees.
To his surname Coriolanus 'longs more pride
Than pity to our prayers. Down: an end;
This is the last. – So we will home to Rome,
And die among our neighbours. – Nay, behold's:
This boy, that cannot tell what he would have
But kneels and holds up hands for fellowship,
Does reason our petition with more strength
Than thou hast to deny't. – Come, let us go:
This fellow had a Volscian to his mother;
His wife is in Corioli, and his child
Like him by chance. – Yet give us our despatch:
I am hush'd until our city be afire,
And then I'll speak a little.
O mother, mother!
What have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope,
The gods look down, and this unnatural scene
They laugh at. O my mother, mother! O!
You have won a happy victory to Rome;
But for your son, – believe it, O, believe it,
Most dangerously you have with him prevail'd,
If not most mortal to him. But let it come. –
Aufidius, though I cannot make true wars,
I'll frame convenient peace. Now, good Aufidius,
Were you in my stead, would you have heard
A mother less? or granted less, Aufidius?
I was mov'd withal.
I dare be sworn you were:
And, sir, it is no little thing to make
Mine eyes to sweat compassion. But, good sir,
What peace you'll make, advise me: for my part,
I'll not to Rome, I'll back with you; and, pray you
Stand to me in this cause. – O mother! wife!
I am glad thou hast set thy mercy and thy honour
At difference in thee; out of that I'll work
Myself a former fortune.
Ay, by and by;
But we'll drink together; and you shall bear
A better witness back than words, which we,
On like conditions, will have counter-seal'd.
Come, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve
To have a temple built you: all the swords
In Italy, and her confederate arms,
Could not have made this peace.
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Copyright 2002 – 2009: Ulrike Böhm, all rights reserved.