Coriolanus.
Come, leave your tears: a brief farewel: the beast
With many heads butts me away. Nay, mother,
Where is your ancient courage? you were us'd
To say, extremity was the trier of spirits,
That common chances common men could bear;
That when the sea was calm, all boats alike
Shew'd mastership in floating. Fortune's blows
When most struck home, being ^{a note}gently warded, craves
A noble cunning. You were us'd to load me
With precepts that would make invincible
The heart that conn'd them.

Vir.
Oh heav'ns! O heav'ns!

Cor.
Nay, I pr'ythee woman—

Vol.
Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome,
And occupations perish.

Cor.
What! what! what!
I shall be lov'd, when I am lack'd. Nay, mother,
Resume that spirit, when you were wont to say,
If you had been the wife of Hercules,
Six of his labours you'd have done, and sav'd
Your husband so much sweat. Cominius,
Droop not; adieu: farewel my wife, my mother,

I'll do well yet. Thou old and true Menenius,
Thy tears are salter than a younger man's,
And venomous to thine eyes. My (sometime) General,
I've seen thee stern, and thou hast oft beheld
Heart-hardning spectacles. Tell these sad women,
'Tis fond to wail inevitable stroaks,
As 'tis to laugh at 'em. Mother, you wot
My hazards still have been your solace; and
Believe't not lightly, (tho' I go alone,
Like to a lonely dragon, that his fen
Makes fear'd, and talk'd of more than seen:) your son
Will, or exceed the common, or be caught
With cautelous baits and practice.

Vol.
My first son,
Where will you go? take good Cominius
With thee a while; determine on some course,
More than a wild exposure to each chance,
That starts i'th' way before thee.

Cor.
O the Gods!

Com.
I'll follow thee a month, devise with thee
Where thou shalt rest, that thou may'st hear of us,
And we of thee. So if the time thrust forth
A cause for thy repeal, we shall not send
O'er the vast world, to seek a single man,
And lose advantage, which doth ever cool
I'th' absence of the needer.

Cor.
Fare ye well:
Thou'st years upon thee, and thou art too full
Of the war's surfeits, to go rove with one
That's yet unbruis'd; bring me but out at gate.
Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and
My friends of noble touch: when I am forth,
Bid me farewel, and smile. I pray you, come.

While I remain above the ground, you shall
Hear from me still, and never of me ought
But what is like me formerly.

Men.
That's worthily
As any ear can hear. Come, let's not weep.
If I could shake off but one seven years
From these old arms and legs, by the good Gods
I'd with thee every foot.

Cor.
Give me thy hand. [Exeunt.

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