University of Virginia Library

Scene Opening, shews Coriolanus seated in State, in a rich Pavilion, his Guards and Souldiers with lighted Torches, as ready to set Fire on Rome; Petitioners as from the Citty offer him Papers, which he scornfully throws by: At length Menenius comes forward, and speaks to him: Aufidius with Nigridius, making Remarks on 'em.
Men.
Now may the Gods in hourly Councel sit,
For thy Prosperity, and Love Thee,
As thy old Father Menenius do's:
O Son! my Son, What Fury sways thy Breast?
Thou art preparing Fire for us; look here,
Here's Water for the Flames:
Most hardly was I wrought to come to Thee;
But being assur'd none but my self cou'd move Thee;
I come, blown out from Rome with gales of Sighs.

Cor.
Away.

Men.
How?

Cor.
No words Friend: Mother, Wife, or Child, I know not;
I'm not my own, but servanted to others;
Mine was the Injury, but the Remission
Lies not with me, but in the Volsces Breast;
And Rome must stand to them for their Account.
That we were Friends, forgetfulness must blot,
E're lawless Pitty move: Therefore be gone,
My Ears against your Pray'rs are stronger, than
Your Gates against my Arms: Yet 'cause I Lov'd Thee,
Take this with thee; I Writ it for thy Sake,
And meant t'have sent it: Another word, Menenius,
I must not hear Thee speak: This Man, Aufidius,
Was my best Lov'd in Rome; yet thou beholdst—

Auf.
You bear a constant Temper.

Cor.
His Love to me,
Was much beyond the Kindness of a Father;
And I return'd him more than filial Duty;
Their latest Refuge was to send him to me.

Auf.
You are two Rigorous.

Nigr.
Fasten but that upon him, and you Gain
The Point we wish.

Cor.
Now plant our Fires against the Gates of Rome:
Bid all Trumpets Sound;
They shall have Musick to their flaming Citty.

As they Advance with their Lights, Enter from the other side, Volumnia, Virgilia, and Young Martius, with the rest of the Roman Ladies all in Mourning.
Cor.
Look there, my Mother, Wife, and little Darling,
Are come to Meet our Triumph on its way,
And be Spectators of our keen Revenge,
On this ingrateful Town.

Virg.
My dearest Lord!

Vol.
My First-born only Son.

Cor.
Life of my Life, Fly to me? O a Kiss,
Long as my Exile, Sweet as my Revenge;
And thou my Turtle, Nest Thee in my Heart:
(To the Boy)
Forgive me Gods, that any dearest Transport,
Shou'd make my charm'd Sense, unsaluted, leave
The Noblest Mother—sink my Knee in Earth,
Of deepest Duty more Impression shew,
Than that of common Sons.

Nigr.
Observe you this?

Cor.
What means this Silence? What, these sable Weeds?
This Troop of Stars beset with darkest Night:
O Mother, Wife! Two deeply you have took
My Banishment, and I must chide your Sorrow.
This Sadness for my Absence, shew'd Dispair
Of Injur'd Martius Virtue, call'd in Question,
The Justice of the Gods for my Revenge;
Virgilia speak, speak Mother; at your Feet
Behold a kneeling Conqueror: Answer to me.

Vol.
Rise Martius, up, Coriolanus rise;
Whilst with no softer Cushion than these Flints;
I Kneel to thee, and with this new Submission,
Shew Duty as mistaken all this while,
Between the Son and Parent.

Cor.
What's this? Your Knees to me?
Then let the Pibbles of the Hungry Beach,
Change Station with the Stars; the Mutinous Winds,
Snatch Mountain-Oaks, and hurl 'em at the Sun;
Let all Impossibilities have Being,
And Nature fall as Giddy with the Round.

Vol.
My Fire-Ey'd Warrior, Do you know this Lady?

Cor.
The Noble Sister of Publicola,
The Moon of Rome, Chast as the frozen Snow,
That hangs on Diana's Temple.

Vol.
And this divine Epitome of yours;
This little Martius whom full Time shall ripen
Into your perfect self.

Cor.
The God of Battles,
With the Consent of fav'ring Jove inspire
Thy Thoughts with Nobleness; that thou mayst prove,
The Wars proud Standard fixt in Tides of Blood;
Like a tall Sea-mark o're the dashing Waves,
And saving those that view Thee.

Vol.
Your Knee Sirrah,
Ev'n He, your Wife, these Ladies, and my Self,
Are humble Suitors—

Cor.
Oh my boding Heart!

Vol.
This Liv'ry was not for your Absence worn;
So dear we knew your safety to the Gods:
But now put on as funeral Robes, and Mourning
For our expiring Rome. O spare thy Country,
And do not Murder Nature.

Cor.
Witness for me
You conqu'ring Host, and Thou my valiant Partner;
What Tenderness and Duty I have shewn
These Ladies, whilst they did converse with me
As Wife and Mother: but since they exceed
The Bounds of Kindred, and encroach upon
Affairs of State, I as the Volsces General,
Support their Dignity, and take my Pomp;
[Ascends his Throne.
Yet Nature shall to any suit, unlock
Our yielding Ear, that do's not tend to Save
The Roman State, and Barring our Revenge;
In that particular, I shall forget
All enter-course of Blood;
Standing as Man were Author of himself,
And knew no other Kin.

Vol.
No more, no more;
You have said you will not grant us any thing,
For we have nothing else to ask, but that
Which you deny already—yet we'll speak.

Cor.
Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark, for we
Hear nought from Rome in private—your request:
What seeks that lovely Tempter, whose Dove's Eyes
Cou'd make the Gods forsworn—but shake not me?

Virg.
Think with your self my once indulgent Lord,
How more unhappy than all living Women,
Are we come hither, since thy sight, that shou'd
Make our Eyes flow with Joy, strikes Terrour through us;
Forcing the Mother, Wife, and Child, to see
The Son, the Husband, and the Father, tearing
His Countries Bowels with unnatural Rage,
Whilst frighted Destiny disowns the Deed,
And Hell is struck with Horrour.

Vol.
Thou debarr'st us
Ev'n of our Prayr's to th'Gods, and to this Hour,
No Wretchedness was e're deny'd that help:
How shall we ask the Death of Rome, or thee,
Oppos'd in fatal War; and one must fall?
Most wretched Martius, thou bleed'st ev'ry way;
For know 'tis sworn betwixt thy Wife and me,
In that curst hour that Thou despoilst our Citty,
Thou tread'st upon thy Mother's Earth.

Virg.
And mine; and this sweet smiling Flow'r.

Boy.
He shall not tread on me, I'll run away till I am bigger;
But then I'll Fight.

Cor.
Not to be struck with Woman's tenderness,
Requires, nor Child's, nor Woman's Face to see.
I have sate too long.

[Descends.
Virg.
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 Poys'ners of your Honour: No, our suit
Is but to Reconcile 'em, that the Volsces
May say, This Mercy we have shewn the Romans;
This we receiv'd, whilst either Party gives
The Praise to Thee, and bless thy Memory,
For making this dear Peace.

Vol.
Thou know'st my Son,
Th'event of War's uncertain; but 'tis certain,
That if thou Conquer Rome, the Benefit
That thou shalt reap from thence, is such a Name,
As always shall be mention'd with a Curse:
Thy Chronicle writ thus; The Man was Noble,
But with his last performance stain'd his Glory,
And left his Rowl of Fame, but one foul Blot.
Pause, and reply to this.

Cor.
Why chills my Blood?
Like a dull Actor now have I forgot
My Part, and stop even to a full Disgrace:
Away Affection; break ye Bonds of Nature;
In me 'tis virtuous to be obstinate:
Bid our Drums strike.

Vol.
Speak Daughter; Boy, speak thou;
Perhaps thy childishness may move him more,
Than all our Reasons: Never was there Man,
So much to an indulgent Mother bound,
Yet all neglected. Here he sees me begging;
Say my request's unjust, and spurn me back:
But if it be not so—he turns away.
Down Ladies, let us shame him with our Knees;
He bears more service for his Countrys Foes,
Than Pitty for our Prayers: Down, and finish;
This is our last; so will we back to Rome,
And dye i'th' common Slaughter—Nay, behold
This Boy, that cannot tell what he wou'd have;
Yet Kneels, and with up-lifted Hands,
Becomes a pleader for his Country too:
Remorsless still—Then give us our Dispatch;
We'll speak no more, till Rome be all on Fire.
Then joyning Curses with the Crowd, expire.

Cor.
O Mother-Goddess, dread Volumnia, turn:
What have you done? Behold the Heav'ns divide,
And Gods look down on this amazing Scene!
O Mother Goddess, Heav'n-born Advocate;
A happy Victory you've gain'd for Rome,
Though dang'rous for your Son. But let it come
Aufidius, though we press not on the War,
We'll frame convenient Peace. Now tell me Warriours,
If you were in my stand, Wou'd you have heard
A Mother less, or granted less, Aufidius?

Auf.
I was mov'd too.

Cor.
I dare be sworn you were:
What Peace you'l make, advise me; for my part,
I'll not to Rome, but back with you. Lead on,
Sound all our Trumpets—Ladies you deserve
To have a Temple built you: All Romes Legions,
With their Confed'rate Arms, cou'd ne're have stood
My sworn Revenge, and turn'd this Tide of Blood.