Coriolanus.
Let them pull all about my ears, present me
Death on the wheel, or at wild horse's 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.
I muse, my mother
Does not approve me further, who was wont
To call them woolen vassals. I talk of you.
Why did you wish me milder? Wou'd you have me
False to my nature? Rather say, I play
The man I am.

Veturia.
Oh, sir, sir, sir,
I would have had you put your power well on,
Before you had worn it out.

Coriolanus.
Let it go—

Veturia.
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 shew'd them how you were dispos'd
E're they lack'd power to cross you.

Coriolanus.
Let them hang.

Veturia.
Ay, and burn too. Enter Menenius and Senators.

Menenius.
Come, come, you've been too rough, something too rough:
You must return, and mend it.

Second Senator.
There's no remedy,
Unless, by not so doing, our good city
Cleave in the midst, and perish.

Veturia.
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.

Menenius.
Well said, noble woman:
Before he should thus stoop to th' herd, but that
The violent fit of the times craves it as physick
For the whole state, I'd put mine armour on,
Which I can scarcely bear.

Coriolanus.
What must I do?

Menenius.
Return to th' tribunes.

Coriolanus.
Well, What then? What then?

Menenius.
Repent what you have spoke.

Coriolanus.
For them?—I cannot do it for the Gods,
Must I then do't for them?

Veturia.
You are too absolute,
Tho' therein you can never be too noble,
But when extremities speak. I've heard you say,
Honour and policy, like unsever'd friends,
I'th' war do grow together: Grant that, and tell me,
In peace, what each of them by th'other loses,
That they combine not there?

Coriolanus.
Tush, tush—

Menenius.
A good demand.

Veturia.
If it be honour in yout wars, to seem
The thing you are not, which for your best ends
You call your policy; how is't 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 enforce you this?

Veturia.
Because it lies on you to speak to th' people:
Not by your own instruction, nor by th' matter
Which your heart prompts you to, but with such words;
But roated in your tongue; 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.—

Menenius.
Noble lady!
Come, go with us, speak fair: you may salve so
Not what is dangerous present, but the loss
Of what is past.

Veturia.
I pr'ythee now, my son,
Go to them with thy bonnet in thy hand,
And thus far having stretch't it, (here be with them)
Thy knee bussing the stones; (for in such business
Action is eloquence, and the eyes of th' ignorant
More learned than the ears:] 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.
This but done,
Ev'n as she speaks, why, all their hearts were yours:
For they have pardons, being ask'd, as free,
As words to little purpose.

Veturia.
Pry'thee now,
Go and be rul'd: altho', I know, thou'dst rather
Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulph,
Than flatter him in a bower.
Here is Cominius. Enter Cominius.

Cominius.
I've been i'th' market place, and, Sir, 'tis fit
You have 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.

Veturia.
He must and will:
Pry'thee now, say you will, and go about it.

Coriolanus.
Must 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 th' market place!
You've put me now to such a part, which never
I shall discharge to th' life.

Cominius.
Come, come, we'll prompt you.

Veturia.
Ay, pry'thee 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 turn'd,
Which quired with my drum, into a pipe
Small as an Eunuch's, or the Virgin's 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,
Which 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.

Veturia.
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 own thy pride thyself.

Coriolanus.
Pray, be content:
Mother, I'm 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'th' way of flattery further.

Veturia.
Do your will. [Exit Veturia.

Cominius.
Away, the tribunes do attend yon: Arm
Yourself to answer mildly: for they're prepar'd
With accusations, as I hear, more strong
Than are upon you yet.

Coriolanus.
The word is, mildly. Pray you, let us go.
Let them accuse me by invention; I
Will answer in mine honour.

Menenius.
Ay, but mildly.

Coriolanus.
Well, mildly let it be then, mildly. [Exeunt.

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