All language subtitles for Coriolan_BBC_1984_Track03

You are all resolve I rather
to die than to famish?

Resolved.

First, you know Caius Marcius
is chief enemy to the people.

Let us kill him, and we'll
have corn at our own price.

The gods know I speak
this in hunger for bread,

not in thirst for revenge.

He's a very dog to the commonalty.

Consider you what services
he has done for his country.

Very well, and could be content
to give him good report for't,

but that he pays himself
with being proud.

Nay, but speak not maliciously.

I say unto you, what he hath done
famously, he did it to that end.

Though soft-conscienced men

can be content to say
it was for his country,

he did it to please his mother
and to be partly proud,

which he is, even to the
altitude of his virtue.

What he cannot help in his nature,
you account a vice in him.

What shouts are these?

The other side
o'the city is risen.

Soft!

Who comes here?
Worthy Menenius Agrippa,

one that hath
always loved the people.

Where go you with bats and clubs?

The matter? Speak, I pray you.

Our business is not
unknown to the senate.

They have had inkling this
fortnight what we intend to do,

which now we'll show 'em in deeds.

Why, masters,

my good friends,

mine honest neighbours,

will you undo yourselves?

We cannot, sir. We
are undone already.

I tell you, friends,
most charitable care

have the patricians of you.

Care for us!

True, indeed.

They ne'er cared for us yet.

Suffer us to famish,

and their store-houses
crammed with grain,

make edicts for usury,
to support usurers,

repeal daily any wholesome act
established against the rich,

and provide more
piercing statutes daily,

to chain up and restrain the poor.

If the wars eat us
not up, they will,

and there's all the
love they bear us.

(Chuckles)

Either you must confess
yourselves wondrous malicious,

or be accused of folly.

I shall tell you a pretty tale.
It may be you've heard it.

But, since it serves my purpose,

I'll venture to
stale't a little more.

Well, I'll hear it, sir.

Yet you must not think to fob
off our disgrace with a tale,

but, an't please you, deliver.

There was a time when all the
body's members rebell'd

against the belly,
thus accused it:

that only like a gulf it did
remain i'the midst o'the body,

idle and unactive,

still cupboarding the viand, never
bearing like labour with the rest,

where the other
instruments did see

and hear, devise,
instruct, walk, feel,

and, mutually participate,

did minister unto the appetites

and affection common
of the whole body.

-The belly answer'd. -Well, sir,
what answer made the belly?

Sir, I shall tell you.

With a kind of smile,

which ne'er came from
the lungs, but even thus...

For, look you, I may make the
belly smile as well as speak.

It tauntingly replied to the
discontented members,

the mutinous parts
that envied his receipt,

even so most fitly

as you malign our senators for
that they are not such as you.

Your belly's answer? What!

Your most grave belly
was deliberate,

not rash like his accusers,

and thus answer'd:

"True is it, my incorporate
friends," quoth he,

"that I receive the general food
at first, which you do live upon,

"and fit it is,

"because I am the store-house
and the shop of the whole body.

"But, if you do remember, I send it
through the rivers of your blood,

"even to the court, the heart,
to the seat o'the brain,

"and, through the
cranks and offices of man,

"the strongest nerves
and small inferior veins

"from me receive that natural
competency whereby they live.

"And though that all at once..."

You, my good friends.

This said the belly.
Ay, mark me...

Ay, sir. Well, well.

"Though all at once cannot see
what I do deliver out to each,

"yet I can make my audit up,

"that all from me do back
receive the flour of all,

"and leave me but the bran."

What say you to't?

It was an answer.

How apply you this?

The senators of Rome
are this good belly,

and you the mutinous members,

for examine their
counsels and their cares,

digest things rightly touching
the weal o'the common,

you shall find no public
benefit that you receive

but it proceeds or comes
from them to you

and no way from yourselves.

What's the matter,
you dissentious rogues,

that, rubbing the poor itch of your
opinion, make yourselves scabs?

We have ever your good word.

He that will give good words to
thee will flatter beneath abhorring.

What would you have, you curs,
that like nor peace nor war?

The one affrights you,
the other makes you proud.

He that trusts to you,

where he should find you
lions, finds you hares.

Where foxes, geese.

You are no surer, no, than
is the coal of fire upon the ice,

or hailstone in the sun.

Your virtue is to make him worthy
whose offence subdues him

and curse that justice did it.

Who deserves greatness

deserves your hate.

Trust ye?

Hang ye!

What's the matter, that in
these several places of the city

you cry against the noble senate,

who, under the gods,
keep you in awe,

which else would
feed on one another?

What's their seeking?

For com at their own
rates, whereof,

they say, the city is well stored.

Hang 'em!

They say!

They'll sit by the fire, and presume
to know what's done i'the Capitol,

who's like to rise, who
thrives and who declines,

side factions and give
out conjectural marriages,

making parties strong and feebling

such as stand not in their liking
below their cobbled shoes.

They say there's grain enough!

What says the other troop?

They are dissolved.

Hang 'em!

They said they were an-hungry,

sigh'd forth proverbs,
that hunger broke stone walls,

that dogs must eat,

that meat was made for mouths,

that the gods sent not corn
for the rich men only.

With these shreds
they vented their complainings,

which being answer'd,
and a petition granted them,

a strange one,

to break the heart of generosity,
and make bold power look pale...

they threw their caps as they would
hang 'em on the horns o'the moon,

shouting their emulation.

What is granted them?

Five tribunes to defend
their vulgar wisdoms,

of their own choice.

One's Junius Brutus, Sicinius
Velutus, and I know not...

'Sdeath! The rabble should
have first unroof'd the city,

ere so prevail'd with me.

It will in time win upon power

and throw forth greater themes
for insurrection's arguing.

This is strange.

Go, get you home, you...

fragments!

What's the matter?

The news is, sir,
the Volsces are in arms.

I am glad on't.

Then we shall have means
to vent our musty superfluity.

They have a leader, Tullus
Aufidius, that will put you to't.

I sin in envying his nobility,

and were I anything, but what
I am, I would wish me only he.

You have fought together.

Were half to half the world by
the ears and he upon my party,

I'd revolt only to make
my wars with him.

He is a lion that I am
proud to hunt.

Then, worthy Marcius, attend
upon Cominius to these wars.

It is your former promise.

Sir, it is, and I am constant.

Titus Lartius, thou shalt see me
once more strike at Tullus' face.

-What, art thou stiff?
Stand'st out? -No, Caius Marcius.

I'll lean upon one crutch
and fight with t'other,

ere stay behind this business.

O, true-bred!

Was ever man so proud
as is this Marcius?

He has no equal.

When we were chosen
tribunes for the people...

-Mark'd you his lip and eyes?
-Nay. But his taunts.

Being moved, he will
not spare to gird the gods.

Be-mock the modest moon.

The present wars devour him.

He is grown too
proud to be so valiant.

Such a nature, tickled
with good success,

disdains the shadow
which he treads on at noon.

But I do wonder his
insolence can brook

to be commanded under Cominius.

Fame, at the which he aims, in
whom already he is well graced,

cannot better be held
nor more attain'd

than by a place below the first.

For what miscarries
shall be the general's fault,

though he perform
to the utmost of a man,

and giddy censure
will then cry out of Marcius,

"O if he had bome the business!"

Besides, if things go well,

opinion that so sticks on Marcius
shall of his demerits rob Cominius.

So, your opinion is, Aufidius,

that they of Rome are
entered in our counsels

and know how we proceed.

Is it not yours?

What ever have been
thought on in this state,

that could be brought to bodily
act ere Rome had circumvention?

'Tis not four days gone
since I heard thence.

These are the words.

I think I have the letter here.
Yes, here it is.

"They have press'd a power,

"but it is not known
whether for east or west.

"The dearth is great,
the people mutinous,

"and it is rumour'd, Cominius,

"Marcius your old enemy, who is
of Rome worse hated than of you,

"and Titus Lartius,
a most valiant Roman,

"these three lead on this
preparation whither 'tis bent.

"Most likely 'tis for you."

Consider of it.

Our army's in the field.

We never yet made doubt but
Rome was ready to answer us.

Nor did you think it folly to keep
your great pretences veil'd

till when they needs must
show themselves,

which in the hatching, it
seem'd, appear'd to Rome.

By the discovery, we shall
be shorten'd in our aim,

which was to take
in many towns ere

almost Rome should
know we were afoot.

Noble Aufidius,

take your commission.

Hie you to your bands.
Let us alone to guard Corioli.

If they set down before's, for the
remove bring up your army,

but, I think, you'll find
they've not prepared for us.

O, doubt not that.
I speak from certainties.

I'll leave your honours.

If we and Caius Marcius
chance to meet,

'tis sworn between us

we shall ever strike
till one can do no more.

I pray thee, 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
plucked 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,

was pleased to let him seek danger
where he was like 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 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.

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,

look'd not lovelier
than Hector's forehead

when it spit forth blood
at Grecian sword, contemning.

(Bell rings twice)

Tell Valeria, we are
fit to bid her welcome.

Heavens bless my lord
from fell Aufidius!

He'll pluck 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, i' good faith.

How does your little son?

I thank your ladyship,
well, good madam.

He'd 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
housewife 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 yam

she spun in Ulysses' absence did
but fill Ithaca full of moths.

(Marcius' mother laughs)

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 eamest, 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.

Summon the town.

(Shouting and banging)

Tutus Aufidius,
is he within your walls?

No, nor a man that
fears you less than he.

That's lesser than a little.

(Distant cry of battle)

Hark you, far off.

There is Aufidius.

List what work he makes
amongst your cloven army.

(Continued shouts
of men in distance)

O, they are at it!

Their noise be our
instruction. Ladders, ho!

(Marcius thinks) All the contagion
of the south light on you,

you shames of Rome!

You herd of...

Boils and plagues
plaster you o'er,

that you may be
abhorr'd farther than seen

and one infect another
against the wind a mile!

You souls of geese,
that bear the shapes of men,

how have you run from
slaves that apes would beat?

Pluto and hell!

All hurt behind.

Backs red, and faces pale
with flight and agued fear.

Mend and charge home,

or, by the fires of heaven,

I'll leave the foe and
make my wars on you.

Look to't.

What is become of Marcius?

Slain, sir, doubtless.

Following the fliers at the very
heels, with them he enters,

who, upon the sudden,
clapp'd to their gates.

He is himself alone,
to answer all the city.

Look, sir.

O, 'tis Marcius!

Let's fetch him off,
or make remain alike.

Come I too late?

The shepherd knows
not thunder from a tabour

more than I know the
sound of Marcius' tongue

from every meaner man.

Come I too late?

Ay, if you come not in the blood of
others, but mantled in your own.

But how prevail'd you?

Wil the time serve to tell?
I do not think.

Where is the enemy?

Are you lords o'the field? If not,
why cease you till you are so?

Marcius, we have at
disadvantage fought

and did retire to
win our purpose.

I do beseech you, by all the
battles wherein we have fought,

by the blood we
have shed together,

by the vows we have
made to endure friends,

that you directly set me
against Aufidius and his Antiates,

and that you not
delay the present,

but, filling the air with
swords advanced and darts,

we prove this very hour.

Though I could wish you were
conducted to a gentle bath

and balms applied to you,

yet dare I never deny your asking.

Take your choice of those
that best can aid your action.

Those are they that
most are willing.

If any such be here,

as it were sin to doubt,

that love this painting
wherein you see me smear'd,

if any fear lesser his person
than an ill report,

if any think brave death
outweighs bad life

and that his country's
dearer than himself,

let him alone,

or so many so minded,

wave thus, to express his
disposition, and follow Marcius.

O, me alone!

Make you a sword of me.

I'll fight with none but thee,

for I do hate thee worse
than a promise-breaker.

We hate alike.

Not Afric owns a serpent I abhor
more than thy fame and envy.

Fix thy foot.

Let the first budger
die the other's slave,

and the gods doom him after!

If I fly, Marcius,
halloo me like a hare.

Within these three hours, Tullus,
alone I fought in your Corioli walls,

and made what work I pleased.

'Tis not my blood wherein
thou seest me mask'd.

For thy revenge wrench up
thy power to the highest.

Wert thou the Hector that was
the whip of thy bragg'd progeny,

thou shouldst not scape me here.

The augurer tells me
we shall have news tonight.

Good or bad?

Not according to the
prayers of the people,

for they love not Marcius.

Nature teaches beasts
to know their friends.

-Pray you, who does the wolf love?
-The lamb.

Ay, to devour him, as the hungry
plebeians would the noble Marcius.

He's a lamb indeed,
that baas like a bear.

He's a bear indeed,
that lives like a lamb.

You two are old men.

Tell me one thing that
I shall ask you. -Well, sir.

In what enormity is Marcius poor,
that you two have not in abundance?

He's poor in no one fault,
but stored with all.

-Especially in pride.
-Topping all others in boasting.

This is strange now.

Do you two know how you
are censured here in the city,

I mean of us
o'the right-hand file?

Why, how are we censured?

Because you talk of pride now...
Will you not be angry?

Well, well, sir.

Well.

Why, 'tis no great matter,

for a very little
thief of occasion

will rob you of a
great deal of patience.

Give your dispositions the reins,
and be angry at your pleasures,

at the least if you take it as
a pleasure to you in being so.

You blame Marcius for being proud?

We do it not alone, sir.

I know you do very little alone,
for your helps are many,

or else your actions
would grow wondrous single.

Your abilities are too
infant-like to do much alone.

You talk of pride.

O that you could turn your eyes
toward the napes of your necks,

and make but an interior survey of
your good selves! O that you could!

What then, sir?

Why, then you should discover
a brace of unmeriting,

proud, violent, testy magistrates,

alias fools, as any in Rome.

Come, sir, come,
we know you well enough.

You know neither me,
yourselves nor anything.

You are ambitious for
poor knaves' caps and legs.

You wear out a good
wholesome forenoon

hearing a cause between an
orange wife and a fosset-seller,

and then rejourn the
controversy of three pence

to a second day of audience.

When you are hearing a matter
between party and party,

if you chance to be
pinched with the colic,

you make faces like mummers,

set up the bloody flag
against all patience,

and, in roaring for a chamber pot,

dismiss the controversy bleeding
the more entangled by your hearing.

All the peace you
make in their cause

is calling both
the parties knaves.

You are a pair of strange ones.

God-den to your worships.

More of your conversation
would infect my brain,

being the herdsmen
of the beastly plebeians.

I'll be bold to take
my leave of you.

If I should tell thee
o'er this thy day's work,

thou'd not believe thy deeds.

But I'll report it where senators
shall mingle tears with smiles,

where great patricians shall attend
and shrug, i'the end admire,

where ladies shall be frighted,
and, gladly quaked, hear more,

where the dull tribunes,

that, with the fusty plebeians,
hate thine honours,

shall say against their hearts,

"We thank the gods our
Rome hath such a soldier."

Pray now, no more.

My mother, who has
a charter to extol her blood,

when she does
praise me grieves me.

I have done as you have done,
that's what I can,

induced as you have been,
that's for my country.

He that has but effected his good
will hath overta'en mine act.

You shall not be the
grave of your deserving.

Rome must know
the value of her own.

Therefore, I beseech you
in sign of what you are,

not to reward what you have done,

before our army hear me.

I have some wounds upon me,

and they smart to hear
themselves remember'd.

Should they not, well might
they fester 'gainst ingratitude,

and tent themselves with death.

Of all the treasure
in this field achieved and city,

we render you the tenth,

to be ta'en forth,
before the common distribution,

at your only choice.

I thank you, General,

but cannot make my heart consent
to take a bribe to pay my sword.

I do refuse it

and stand upon my common part

with those that have
beheld the doing.

May these same instruments, which
you profane, never sound more!

When drums and trumpets shall
i'the field prove flatterers,

let courts and cities all be
made of false-faced soothing!

For that I have not
wash'd my nose that bled,

or foil'd some debile wretch,

which, without note,
here's many else have done...

You shout me forth
in acclamations hyperbolical,

as if I loved my little should be
dieted in praises sauced with lies.

Too modest are you,

more cruel to your good report

than grateful to us
that give you truly.

By your patience, if 'gainst
yourself you be incensed,

we'll put you, like one that means
his proper harm, in manacles,

then reason safely with you.

Therefore, be it known,
as to us, to all the world,

that Caius Marcius
wears this war's garland,

and from this time, for what
he did before Corioli, call him,

with all the applause
and clamour of the host,

Caius Marcius Coriolanus!

Caius

Marcius

Coriolanus!

Coriolanus!

Bear the addition nobly ever.

I will go... wash,

and when my face is fair,

you shall perceive
whether I blush or no.

The gods begin to mock me.

I, that now refused
most princely gifts,

am bound to beg of
my lord general.

Take't, 'tis yours. What is't?

I sometime lay here in Corioli
at a poor man's house.

He used me kindly.

He cried to me.

I saw him prisoner.

But then Aufidius was
within my view, and wrath

o'erwhelm'd my pity.

I request you to give
my poor host freedom.

O, well begg'd!

Were he the butcher of my son,
he should be free as is the wind.

Deliver him, Titus.

Marcius, his name?

By Jupiter!

Forgot.

I am weary.

Yea... my memory is tired.

Have we no wine here?

The town is ta'en!

'Twill be deliver'd back
on good condition.

Condition!

I would I were a Roman...

for I cannot, being a
Volsce, be that I am.

Condition!

What good condition can a treaty
find i'the part that is at mercy?

Five times, Marcius,
I have fought with thee.

So often hast thou beat me,
and wouldst do so,

I think, should we encounter
as often as we eat.

By the elements, if e'er again
I meet him beard to beard, he's mine,

or... I am his.

Mine emulation hath not
that honour in't it had,

for where I thought to crush him

in an equal force,
true sword to sword,

I'll... potch at him
some way or wrath or...

...craft may get him.

He is the devil.

Bolder, though not so subtle.

My valour's poison'd
with only suffering stain by him,

for him... shall fly out of itself.

Nor sleep... nor sanctuary,

being naked, sick,

nor fane nor Capitol,

the prayers of priests
nor times of sacrifice,

embarquements all of fury,

shall lift up their
rotten privilege

and custom 'gainst
my hate to Marcius.

Where I find him,

were it at home,
upon my brother's guard,

even there, against
the hospitable canon,

would I wash my fierce hand...

in his heart.

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.
-Marcius coming home!

Ay, worthy Menenius.

Take my cap, Jupiter,
and I thank thee.

-Marcius coming home!
-Nay, 'tis true.

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, and 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 be 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,

in which he gives my son
the whole name of the war.

He has in this action outdone
his former deeds doubly.

In troth there's wondrous things
spoke of him.

Wondrous! Ay, I'll 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?
Where is he wounded?

In the shoulder
and in 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, two i'the thigh.
That's nine that I know.

He had, before this last expedition,
twenty-five wounds upon him.

Now it is twenty-seven!

Every gash an enemy's grave.

(Fanfare)
-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 advanced,
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 Corilolanus.

Welcome to Rome,
renowned Coriolanus.

No more of this.

It does offend my heart.

Pray now, no more.

Look, sir, your mother.

Oh.

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 named.

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?

Ay, my dear, such eyes
the widows in Corioli wear,

and mothers that lack sons.

Now, the gods crown thee!

And live you yet?

(Laughter)

O sweet lady, pardon.

I know not where to turn.

O, welcome home.

Welcome, General.

And ye're welcome all.

A hundred thousand welcomes.

I could weep and I could laugh.

I am light and heavy.

Welcome.

The good patricians must be visited,

from whom I have received
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 the sudden,
I warrant him consul.

Then our office may,
during his power, go sleep.

He cannot temperately
transport his honours

from where he
should begin and end,

but will lose those he hath won.

-In that there's comfort.
-Doubt not.

The commoners, for whom we stand,

but they upon their ancient malice

will forget with the least cause
these his new honours,

which that he will give them

make I as little question
as he is proud to do't.

I heard him swear,

were he to stand for consul, never
would he appear i'the marketplace,

nor on him put the
napless vesture of humility,

nor showing, as the manner is,
his wounds to the people,

beg their stinking breaths.

-'Tis right.
-It was his word.

He would miss it
rather than carry it

but by the suit of
the gentry to him,

and the desire of the nobles.

I wish no better than have him

hold that purpose and
to put it in execution.

'Tis most like he will.

It shall be to him then as our
good wills, a sure destruction.

So it must fall out to him

or our authorities for an end.

We must suggest to the people

in what hatred he
still hath held them,

that to's power he would
have made them mules,

silenced their pleaders and
dispropertied their freedoms,

holding them, in human
action and capacity,

of no more soul nor
fitness for the world than...

Camels in the war?

Camels in the war.

Who have their provand
only for bearing burdens.

And sore blows for
sinking under them.

This, as you say,

suggested at some time
when his soaring insolence

shall touch the people -

which time shall not want,
if he be put upon 't,

and that's as easy
as to set dogs on sheep -

will be his fire to kindle
their dry stubble,

and their blaze shall
darken him for ever.

-What's the matter?
-You are sent for to the Capitol.

'Tis thought that
Marcius shall be consul.

I have seen the dumb
men throng to see him

and the blind to hear him speak.

Matrons flung gloves,

ladies and maids
their scarfs and

handkerchieves upon
him as he pass'd.

The nobles bended, ay,
as to Jove's statue,

and the commons made a shower

and thunder with
their caps and shouts.

I never saw the like.

Having determined of the Volsces
and to send for Titus Lartius,

it remains, as the main point
in this our after-meeting,

to gratify his noble service that
hath thus stood for his country.

Therefore, please you, most
reverend and grave elders,

to desire the present consul,

and last general in
our well-found successes,

to report a little
of the worthy work

perform'd by Caius
Marcius Coriolanus,

whom we met here
both to thank

and to remember
with honours like himself.

Speak, good Cominius.
Leave nothing out for length,

and make us think rather
our state's defective

for requital than
we to stretch it out.

Masters o'the people,
we do request your kindest ears,

and after, your loving motion
toward the common body,

to yield what passes here.

(Clears throat)

We are convented
upon a pleasing treaty,

and have hearts
inclinable to honour

and advance the theme
of our assembly.

Which the rather we
shall be blest to do,

if he remember a kinder
value of the people

than he hath
hereto prized them at.

That's off, that's off.

I would you rather
had been silent.

Please you to hear Cominius speak?

Most willingly,

but yet my caution
was more pertinent

than the rebuke you give it.

He loves your people but tie
him not to be their bedfellow.

Worthy Cominius, speak.

Nay, keep your place.

Sit, Coriolanus. Never shame
to hear what you have nobly done.

I'd rather have my
wounds to heal again

than hear say how I got them.

Sir, I hope my
words disbench'd you not.

No, sir,

yet oft, when blows have made
me stay, I fled from words.

You soothed not,
therefore hurt not,

but your people,
I love them as they weigh.

Pray now, sit down.

I'd rather have one
scratch my head i'the sun

when the alarum were struck

than idly sit to hear
my nothings monster'd.

(Door closes)

Proceed, Cominius.

I shall lack voice.

The deeds of Coriolanus
should not be utter'd feebly.

It is held that valour
is the chiefest virtue,

and most dignifies the haver.

If it be, the man
I speak of cannot

in the world be
singly counterpoised.

At sixteen years,

when Tarquin made a head for Rome,
he fought beyond the mark of others.

Our then dictator, whom with all
praise I point at, saw him fight,

when with his Amazonian chin he
drove the bristled lips before him.

He bestrid an o'er-press'd Roman

and i'the consul's view
slew three opposers.

Tarquin's self he met,
and struck him on his knee.

In that day's feats, when he
might act the woman in the scene,

he proved the
best man i'the field,

and for his meed was
brow-bound with the oak.

His pupil age man-enter'd thus,

he waxed like a sea.

And in the brunt
of seventeen battles since

he lurch'd all swords
of the garland.

For this last,

before and in Corioli,

let me say, I cannot
speak him home.

He stopp'd the fliers.

And by his rare example made the
coward turn terror into sport.

As weeds before
a vessel under sail,

so men obey'd and
fell below his stem.

His sword, death's stamp.

Where it did mark, it took.

From face to foot
he was a thing of blood,

whose every motion was
timed with dying cries.

Alone he enter'd the
mortal gate of the city,

which he painted
with shunless destiny.

Aidless came off,

and with a sudden reinforcement
struck Corioli like a planet.

Now all's his.

When, by and by, the din of war
gan pierce his ready sense,

then straight his doubled spirit

re-quicken'd what in
flesh was fatigate,

and to the battle came he,

where he did run reeking
o'er the lives of men,

as if 'twere a perpetual spoil.

And till we call'd
both field and city ours,

he never stood to ease
his breast with panting.

Worthy man.

He cannot but with measure fit
the honours which we devise him.

Our spoils he kick'd at,

and look'd upon things precious

as they were the common
muck of the world.

He covets less than misery
itself would give,

rewards his deeds with doing them,

and is content to spend
the time to end it.

He's right noble.

-Let him be call'd for.
-Call Coriolanus.

The senate, Coriolanus, are well
pleased to make thee consul.

I do owe them still
my life and services.

It then remains that you
do speak to the people.

I do beseech you, let
me o'erleap that custom,

for I cannot put on the gown,
stand naked and entreat them,

for my wounds' sake,
to give their suffrage.

-Please you that I may
pass this doing. -Sir.

The people must have their voices.

Neither will they bate
one jot of ceremony.

Put them not to't.

Pray you, go fit you to the
custom and take to you,

as your predecessors have,
your honour with your form.

It is a part that I shall
blush in acting,

and might well be taken
from the people.

Mark you that?

To brag unto them,
thus I did, and thus.

To show them the unaching
scars which I should hide,

as if I had received them for
the hire of their breath only!

Do not stand upon't.

We recommend to you, tribunes of
the people, our purpose to them,

and to our noble consul
wish we all joy and honour.

Once, if he do require our voices,
we ought not to deny him.

We may, sir, if we will.

We have power in
ourselves to do it,

but it is a power that we
have no power to do,

for if he show us his wounds
and tell us his deeds,

we are to put our tongues into
those wounds and speak for them.

So, if he tell us his noble deeds,

we must also tell him our
noble acceptance of them.

Ingratitude is monstrous,

and for the multitude
to be ingrateful,

were to make a monster
of the multitude,

of the which we being members,

should bring ourselves
to be monstrous members.

And to make us no better thought
of, a little help will serve,

for once we stood
up about the corn,

he himself stuck not to call us
the many-headed multitude.

We have been called so of many,

not that our heads are some brown,
some black, some abram, some bald,

but that our wits are
so diversely coloured.

And truly I think if all our wits
were to issue out of one skull,

they would fly east,
west, north, south,

and their consent
of one direct way

should be at once
to all the points o'the compass.

Think you so?

Which way do you
judge my wit would fly?

Nay, your wit will not so
soon out as another man's will.

'Tis strongly wedged
up in a blockhead,

but if it were at liberty,
'twould, sure, southward.

-Why that way?
-To lose itself in a fog,

where being three parts melted
away with rotten dews,

the fourth would return
for conscience sake,

to help to get thee a wife.

You are never without your tricks.
You may, you may.

Are you all resolved
to give your voices?

No!

But that's no matter,
the greater part carries it.

I say,

if he would incline to the people,
there never was a worthier man.

Here he comes,
and in the gown of humility.

Mark his behaviour.

We are not to stay all together,
but to come by him where he stands,

by ones, by twos, by threes.

He's to make his requests
by particulars.

Have you not known the
worthiest men have done't?

What must I say?

"I pray, sir..."

Plague upon't. I cannot bring
my tongue to such a pace.

"Look, sir, my wounds.
I got them in my country's service,

"when some certain
of your brethren roar'd

"and ran from the noise
of our own drums."

O me, the gods!
You must not speak of that.

You must desire them
to think upon you.

Think upon me?

Hang 'em!

I would they would forget me,

like the virtues
which our divines lose by 'em.

You'll mar all. I'll leave you.

Pray you, speak to 'em, I pray
you, in wholesome manner.

Bid them wash their faces,
keep their teeth clean.

So, here comes a brace.

You know the cause, sir,
of my standing here?

We do, sir.

Tell us what hath
brought you to't.

-Mine own desert.
-Your own desert.

-Ay, but not mine own desire.
-How, not your own desire.

No, sir, 'twas never my desire yet
to trouble the poor with begging.

You must think, if we give you
anything, we hope to gain by you.

Well, then, I pray, your
price o'the consulship?

The price is to ask it kindly.

Kindly, sir!

I pray, let me ha't.

I have... wounds
to show you,

which shall be
yours... in private.

Your good voice, sir.

-What say you?
-You shall ha' it, worthy sir.

A match, sir. There's in
all two worthy voices begged.

I have your alms.

Adieu.

But this is something odd.

An 'twere to give again,
but 'tis no matter.

Pray you now,

if it may stand with the tune of
your voices that I may be consul,

I have here the... customary gown.

You have deserved
nobly of your country,

and you have not deserved nobly.

Your enigma?

You have been a
scourge to her enemies,

you have been a
rod to her friends.

You have not indeed loved
the common people.

You should account
me the more virtuous

that I have not been
common in my love.

I will, sir,

flatter my sworn
brother, the people,

to earn a dearer
estimation of them.

'Tis a condition
they account gentle,

and since the wisdom
of their choice

is rather to have my
hat than my heart,

I will, sir,

practise the insinuating nod and
be off to them most counterfeitly.

That is, sir, I will counterfeit

the bewitchment of
some popular man

and give it bountiful
to the desirers.

Therefore, beseech
you, I may be consul.

We hope to find you our friend,

and therefore give
you our voices heartily.

You have received many
wounds for your country.

I will not seal your knowledge
with showing them.

I will make much of your voices,
and so trouble you no further.

The gods give you
joy, sir, heartily.

Most sweet voices.

Better it is to die,
better to starve,

than crave the hire
which first we do deserve.

Why in this wolvish toge
should I stand here,

to beg of Hob and Dick,

that does appear,
their needless vouches?

Custom calls me to't.

What custom wills,
in all things should we do't,

the dust on antique time
would lie unswept,

and mountainous error be too highly
heapt for truth to o'er-peer.

Rather than fool it so,

let the high office and the honour
go to one that would do thus.

I am half through.

The one part suffer'd,
the other will I do.

Here come more voices.

Your voices.

For your voices I have fought,

watcht for your voices.

For your voices
bear of wounds two dozen odd,

battles thrice six
I have seen and heard of,

for your voices have done many
things, some less, some more.

Your voices.

Indeed I would be consul.

He has done nobly, and cannot go
without any honest man's voice.

Therefore let him be consul.

-Amen.
God save thee, noble consul!

Worthy voices!

You have stood your limitation,

and the tribunes
endue you with the people's voice.

Remains that,
in the official marks invested,

you anon do meet the senate.

Is this done?

The custom of request
you have discharged.

The people do admit you,

and are summon'd to meet
anon, upon your approbation.

Where? At the senate house?
May I change these garments?

-You may, sir.
-That I'll straight do,

and, knowing myself again,
repair to the senate house.

I'll keep you company.

He has it now, and by his looks
methinks 'tis warm at 's heart.

With a proud heart
he wore his humble weeds.

Wll you dismiss the people?

How now, my masters!

Have you chose this man?

He has our voices, sir.

To my poor unworthy notice,

he mock'd us when he
begg'd our voices.

Certainly, he flouted
us downright.

No, 'tis his kind of speech.
He did not mock us.

Not one amongst us, save yourself,
but says he used us scornfully.

He should have show'd
us his marks of merit,

wounds received for's country.

Why, so he did, I am sure.

No, no.

No man saw 'em.

He said he hath wounds,
which he could show in private,

and with his hat,
thus waving it in scorn,

"I would be consul," says he.

"Aged custom, but by your voices,
will not so permit me.

"Your voices therefore."

When we granted that, here was
"I thank you for your voices,

"thank you for your
most sweet voices.

"Now you have left your voices,
I have no further with you."

Was not this mockery?

Why... either were
you ignorant to see't,

or, seeing it,

of such childish friendliness
to yield your voices?

Did you perceive he did solicit
you in free contempt

when he did need your loves,

and do you think that his contempt
shall not be bruising to you,

when he hath power to crush?

Why, had your bodies
no heart among you?

Or had you tongues to cry against
the rectorship of judgment?

Have you ere now denied the asker?

And now again of him that
did not ask, but mock,

bestow your sued-for tongues?

He's not confirm'd.

We may deny him yet.

And will deny him.

I'll have five hundred
voices of that sound.

Let them assemble,

and on a safer judgment all
revoke your ignorant election.

Tullus Aufidius then
had made new head?

He had, my lord,

and that it was which
caused our swifter composition.

So then the Volsces
stand but as at first,

ready, when time shall prompt
them, to make road upon's again.

They are worn, lord consul, so,

that we shall hardly in our ages
see their banners wave again.

Saw you Aufidius?

On safe-guard he came to me,
and did curse against the Volsces,

for they had so vilely
yielded the town.

He is retired to Antium.

-Spoke he of me?
-He did, my lord.

How? What?

How often he had met
you, sword to sword,

that of all things upon the earth
he hated your person most,

that he would pawn all his
fortunes to hopeless restitution,

so he might be
call'd your vanquisher.

-At Antium lives he?
-At Antium.

I wish I had a cause
to seek him there,

to oppose his hatred... fully.

Welcome home.

Behold, these are the
tribunes of the people,

the tongues o'the common mouth.

I do despise them,

for they do prank
them in authority,

against all noble sufferance.

Pass no further.

-Ha. What is that?
-It will be dangerous to go on.

No further.

-What makes this change?
-The matter?

Hath he not pass'd the noble
and the common?

Cominius, no.

Have I had children's voices?

Tribunes give way.
He shall to the marketplace.

The people are
incensed against him.

Stop, or all will fall in broil.

Are these your herd?

Must these have voices,

that can yield them now and
straight disclaim their tongues?

What are your offices?

You being their mouths,
why rule you not their teeth?

Have you not set them on?

Be calm, be calm.

It is a purposed thing,

and grows by plot, to
curb the will of the nobility.

Suffer't, and live with such as
cannot rule nor ever will be ruled.

Call't not a plot.

The people cry you mock'd them,

and of late, when corn was
given them gratis, you repined.

Scandal'd the suppliants
for the people,

call'd them time-pleasers,
flatterers, foes to nobleness.

-Why, this was known before.
-Not to them all.

-Have you inform'd them?
-I?

You are like to
do such business.

Not unlike, each
way, to better yours.

Why then should I be consul?

By yond clouds,

let me deserve so ill as you,
and make me your fellow tribune.

You show too much of that
for which the people stir.

If you will pass to
where you are bound,

you must inquire your way,

which you are out of,
with a gentler spirit,

or never be so noble as a consul,
nor yoke with him for tribune.

Let's be calm.

The people are abused. Set on.

This paltering becomes not Rome,

nor has Coriolanus deserved
this so dishonour'd rub,

laid falsely i'the plain
way of his merit.

Tell me of corn!

This was my speech,
and I will speak't again...

Not now, not now.

Not in this heat, sir, now.

Now, as I live, I will.

My nobler friends,
I crave their pardon.

For the mutable,
rank-scented many,

let them regard me
as I do not flatter,

and therein behold themselves.

I say again, in soothing them,

we nourish 'gainst our senate
the cockle of rebellion,

insolence, sedition,

which we ourselves have plough'd
for, sow'd, and scatter'd,

by mingling them with us,
the honour'd number,

who lack not virtue,
no, nor power,

but that which they have
given to beggars.

-Well, no more.
-No more words, we beseech you.

How! No more!

As for my country I have shed my
blood, not fearing outward force,

so shall my lungs coin words till
their decay against those measles,

which we disdain
should tetter us,

yet sought the very
way to catch them.

You speak o'the people,

as if you were a god to punish,
not a man of their infirmity.

'Twere well we let
the people know't.

What, what? His choler?

Choler! Were I as patient
as the midnight sleep, by Jove,

'twould be my mind!

It is a mind that shall
remain a poison where it is,

not poison any further.

Shall remain!

Hear you this Triton
of the minnows?

Mark you his absolute "shall"?

-'Twas from the canon.
-"Shall"!

O good but most unwise patricians!

Why, you grave,
but reckless senators,

have you thus given Hydra
here to choose an officer,

that with his peremptory "shall",

being but the hom
and noise o'the monster's,

wants not spirit to say he'll
tum your current in a ditch,

and make your channel his?

If he have power
then vail your ignorance.

If none, awake
your dangerous lenity.

You are plebeians,
if they be senators,

and they are no less, when,
both your voices blended,

the great'st taste
most palates theirs.

They choose their magistrate,
and such a one as he,

who puts his "shall",

his popular "shall"

against a graver bench
than ever frowned in Greece.

By Jove himself!

It makes the consuls base,

and my soul aches to know,

when two authorities are
up, neither supreme,

how soon confusion may enter
'twixt the gap of both

and take the one by the other.

Well, on to the marketplace.

Whoever gave that
counsel, to give

forth the corn o'the
storehouse gratis,

as 'twas used
sometime in Greece...

No more of that.

Though the people had
more absolute power,

I say, they nourish'd disobedience,
and fed the ruin of the state.

Why shall the people give one
that speaks thus their voice?

I'll give my reasons, more
worthier than their voices.

They know the corn
was not our recompense,

resting well assured
they ne'er did service for't.

Being press'd to the war,

even when the navel of
the state was toucht,

they would not thread the gate.

This kind of service
did not deserve corn gratis.

Being i'the war their
mutinies and revolts,

wherein they show'd most valour,

spoke not for them.
Well, what then?

How shall this bosom multiplied
digest the senate's courtesy?

Let deeds express what's
like to be their words.

"We did request it.

"We are the greater poll,

"and in true fear they
gave us our demand."

Thus we debase the
nature of our seat

and make the rabble
call our cares fears,

which will in time
break ope the locks o'the senate

and bring in the crows
to peck the eagles.

Come, enough.

Enough, with over-measure.

No, take more. What may be
sworn by, both divine and human,

seal what I end withal!

This double worship, where one
part does disdain with cause,

the other insult
without all reason,

where gentry, title, wisdom,

cannot conclude but by the yea
and no of general ignorance.

It must omit real necessities,

and give way the while
to unstable slightness.

Purpose so barr'd, it follows,
nothing is done to purpose.

Therefore, beseech you...

You that will be less
fearful than discreet,

that love the fundamental
part of state more

than you doubt the change on't,

that prefer a noble
life before a long,

that wish to jump a body
with a dangerous physic

that's sure of death without it,

at once pluck out
the multitudinous tongue.

Let them not lick the sweet
which is their poison.

Your dishonour mangles
true judgment

and bereaves the state of that
integrity which should become't,

not having the power
to do the good it would,

for the ill which doth control't.

Has said enough.

Has spoken like a traitor, and
shall answer as traitors do.

Thou wretch, despite
o'erwhelm thee!

What should the people do
with these bald tribunes?

On whom depending, their obedience
fails to the greater bench.

In a rebellion,

when what's not meet,
but what must be,

was law, then were they chosen.

In a better hour, let what is
meet be said it must be meet,

and throw their power i'the dust.

Manifest treason!

This a consul?

No.

The aediles, ho!

Go, call the people,

in whose name myself attach
thee as a traitorous innovator,

a foe to the public weal.

Obey, I charge thee,
and follow to thine answer.

Hence, old goat!

Hence, rotten thing! Or I'll shake
thy bones out of thy garments.

Help, ye citizens!

(Commotion)

-Seize him!
-Coriolanus!

-Hear me!
-Peace!

Hear me, people, peace!

You are at point
to lose your liberties.

Marcius would have all from you.

Marcius, whom late
you have named for consul.

Fie, fie, fie! This is the way
to kindle, not to quench.

To unbuild the city
and to lay all flat.

What is the city but the people?

True, the people are the city.

By the consent of all,

we were establishе the
people's magistrates.

-You so remain.
-And so are like to do.

That is the way
to lay the city flat,

to bring the roof to the
foundation, and bury all,

which yet distinctly ranges,
in heaps and piles of ruin.

This deserves death.

Or let us stand to our
authority, or let us lose it.

We do here pronounce,
upon the part o'the people,

in whose power we
were elected theirs,

Marcius is worthy
of present death.

Therefore lay hold of him.

Bear him to the rock Tarpeian,

and from thence into
destruction cast him.

Aediles, seize him!

Beseech you, tribunes.

(Muttering)

-Hear me but a word.
-(They fall silent)

Be that you seem,
truly your country's friend,

and temperately proceed in what
you would thus violently redress.

Sir, those cold ways,
that seem like prudent helps,

are very poisonous
where the disease is violent.

Lay hands upon him,
and bear him to the rock.

No!

I'll die here.

There's some among you
have beheld me fighting.

Come,

try upon yourselves
what you have seen me.

Down with that sword.

Tribunes, withdraw awhile.

Go, get you to your
house. Be gone.

Come, sir, along with us.

I would they were barbarians,

as they are,
though in Rome litter'd, not Romans,

as they are not, though calved
i'the porch o'the Capitol.

Be gone.

Put not your worthy rage
Into your tongue.

One time will owe another.

On fair ground
I could beat forty of them.

Please you, be gone.

I'll try whether
my old wit be in request

with those that have but little.

This must be patcht
with cloth of any colour.

Nay, come away.

This man has marr'd his fortune.

Where is this viper that
would depopulate the city

and be every man himself?

You worthy tribunes...

He shall be thrown down the
Tarpeian rock with rigorous hands.

He hath resisted law,

and therefore law
shall scorn him further trial

than the severity of the public
power which he so sets at naught.

Sir, sir. Do not cry havoc,

where you should but
hunt with modest warrant.

Sir, how comes't that you have
holp to make this rescue?

Hear me speak.

As I do know the
consul's worthiness,

so can I name his faults...

Consul!

What consul?

The consul Coriolanus.

He consul!

lf, by the tribunes'
leave, and yours,

good people, I may be heard,

I would crave a word or two,

the which shall tum you to no
further harm than loss of time.

Speak briefly then,

for we are peremptory to
dispatch this viperous traitor,

to eject him hence
were but our danger,

and to keep him here
our certain death.

Therefore it is decreed
he dies tonight.

Now the good gods forbid
that our renowned Rome,

whose gratitude towards
her deserved children

is enroll'd in Jove's own book,

like an unnatural dam
should now eat up her own!

He's a disease that
must be cut away.

O, he's a limb that
has but a disease.

This is clean kam.

We'll hear no more.

Pursue him to his house,
and pluck him thence,

lest his infection,

being of catching nature,
spread further.

One word more, one word.

This tiger-footed rage,

when it shall find the harm
of unscann'd swiftness,

will too late tie leaden
pounds to's heels.

Proceed by process,

lest parties, as he is
beloved, break out,

and sack great Rome with Romans.

If it were so...

What do ye talk?

Have we not had a taste
of his obedience?

Our aediles smote?

Ourselves resisted? Come.

Consider this.

He has been bred i'the wars
since he could draw a sword,

and is ill school'd
in bolted language.

Meal and bran together he
throws without distinction.

Give me leave,

I'll go to him, and undertake to
bring him where he shall answer,

by a lawful form, in peace,
to his utmost peril.

Noble tribunes,
it is the humane way.

The other course will
prove too bloody,

and the end of it unknown
to the beginning.

Noble Menenius, be you
then as the people's officer.

Masters, lay down your weapons.

Go not home.

Meet on the marketplace.

We'll attend you there,

where, if you bring not Marcius,
we'll proceed in our first way.

I'll bring him to you.

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.

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 disposed

ere they lackt 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?

Retum 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 the 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 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.

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 prithee now, my son, go to them,
with thy bonnet in thy hand,

and thus far having stretch'd it,

here be with them.

This but done, even as she speaks,
why, their hearts were yours.

Here is Cominius.

I have been i'the marketplace,

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.

Prithee now, say you will,
and go about it.

Must I go show them
my unbarbed 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 marketplace!

You have put me now to such a part

that never shall
I discharge to the life.

Come, come, we'll prompt you.

I prithee thou my 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 lull asleep!

The smiles of knaves
tent in my cheeks,

and schoolboys' tears take
up the glasses of my sight!

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
disgrace 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 marketplace.

Chide me no more.

I'll mountebank their loves,

and cog their hearts from them,

and come home beloved
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.

In this point charge him home,
that he affects tyrannical power.

If he evade us there, enforce
him with his envy to the people,

and that the spoil got on the
Antiates was ne'er distributed.

-What, will he come?
-He's coming.

How accompanied?

With old Menenius, and those
senators that always favour'd him.

Have you a catalogue
of all the voices

that we have procured
set down by the poll?

I have. 'Tis ready.

-Have you collected them
by tribes? -I have.

Assemble presently
the people hither,

and when they hear me say,

"It shall be so i'the right
and strength o'the commons,"

be it either for death,

for fine, or banishment, then let
them, if I say fine, cry "Fine."

If death, cry, "Death."

Insisting on the old prerogative
and power i'the truth o'the cause.

I shall inform them.

And when such time they have
begun to cry, let them not cease,

but with a din confused enforce
the present execution

of what we chance to sentence.

Very well.

Make them be strong
and ready for this hint,

when we shall hap to give't them.

Go about it.

Put him to choler straight.

He hath been used
ever to conquer,

and to have his worth
of contradiction.

Being once chafed, he cannot
be rein'd again to temperance.

Then he speaks
what's in his heart,

and that is there which looks
with us to break his neck.

Well, here he comes.

Calmly, I do beseech you.

Ay, as an ostler,

that for the poorest piece will
bear the knave by the volume.

The honour'd gods
keep Rome in safety,

and the chairs of justice
supplied with worthy men!

Plant love among's!

And throng our large temples
with the shows of peace,

and not our streets with war!

Amen, amen.

A noble wish.

Shall I be charged no
further than this present?

Must all determine here?

I do demand, if you submit
you to the people's voices,

allow their officers

and are content to
suffer lawful censure

for such faults as shall
be proved upon you?

I...

...am content.

Lo, citizens, he says
he is content.

The warlike service he
has done, consider.

Think upon the wounds
his body bears,

which show like graves
i'the holy churchyard.

Scratches with briers,
scars to move laughter only.

Consider further,

that when he speaks
not like a citizen,

you find him like a soldier.

Do not take his rougher
accents for malicious sounds,

but, as I say, such as become
a soldier, rather than envy you.

What is the matter that being
past for consul with full voice,

I am so dishonour'd, that the
very hour you take it off again?

Answer to us.

Say, then, 'tis true,

I ought so.

We charge you,

that you have contrived to take
from Rome all season'd office

and to wind yourself
into a power tyrannical,

for which you are
a traitor to the people.

How...

traitor!

Nay, temperately. Your promise.

The fires i'the lowest
hell fold-in the people.

Call me their traitor?

Thou injurious tribune!

Within thine eyes sat
twenty thousand deaths,

in thy hands clutcht
as many millions,

in thy lying tongue
both numbers,

I would say "Thou liest" unto thee

with a voice as free
as I do pray the gods.

Mark you this, people?

We need not put new
matter to his charge.

What you have seen him
do and heard him speak,

beating your officers,
cursing yourselves,

opposing laws with strokes

and here defying those whose
great power must try him,

even this,

so criminal and in
such capital kind,

deserves the extremest death.

But since he hath served
well for Rome...

What do you prate of service?

-I talk of that, that know it.
-You?

Is this the promise
you made your mother?

I pray you...

I know no further.

Let them pronounce the
steep Tarpeian death,

vagabond exile, flaying, pent to
linger but with a grain a day,

I would not buy their mercy
at the price of one fair word.

For that he has,
as much as in him lies,

from time to time
envied against the people,

seeking means to pluck
away their power,

as now at last given
hostile strokes,

and that not in the presence
of dreaded justice,

but on the ministers
that do distribute it,

in the name o'the people and
in the power of us the tribunes,

we, even from this instant,

banish him our city,

in peril of precipitation
from off the rock Tarpeian

never more to enter
our Rome gates.

I'the people's name,
I say it shall be so.

Hear me, masters,
and common friends.

-He's sentenced. No more
hearing. -Let me speak.

I have been consul,

and can show for Rome
her enemies' marks upon me.

I do love my country's good

with a respect more tender,
more holy and profound,

than mine own life,

my dear wife's estimate,

her womb's increase,
and treasure of my loins.

Then if I would speak that...

We know your drift. Speak what?

There's no more to be said,

but he is banish'd, as enemy
to the people and his country.

It shall be so.

It shall be so, It shall be so.

You common cry of curs,

whose breath I hate
as reek o'the rotten fens,

whose loves I prize as the
dead carcasses of unburied men

that do corrupt my air,

I banish you,

and here remain with
your uncertainty.

Let every feeble rumour
shake your hearts.

Your enemies, with nodding of
their plumes, fan you into despair.

Have the power still to
banish your defenders,

till at length your ignorance,
which finds not till it feels,

deliver you as most abated
captives to some nation

that won you without blows.

Despising, for you, the city,

thus I turn my back.

There is a world...

...elsewhere.

Come,

leave your tears.

A brief farewell.

The beast with many
heads butts me away.

Nay, mother, where is
your ancient courage?

You were used to say extremity
was the trier of spirits,

that common chances
common men could bear,

that, when the sea was calm,

all boats alike show'd
mastership in floating.

You were used to
load me with precepts

that would make invincible
the heart that conn'd them.

O heavens! O heavens!

Nay! Good woman...

Now the red pestilence
strike all trades in Rome,

and occupations perish!

What, what, what!

I shall be loved when I am lackt.

Nay, good 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 saved your
husband so much sweat.

Thy tears are salter
than a younger man's,

and venomous to thine eyes.

My sometime general,
I have seen thee stern,

and thou hast oft beheld
heart-hardening spectacles.

Tell these sad women, 'tis fond
to wail inevitable strokes,

as 'tis to laugh at 'em.

To my mother, you wot well my
hazards still have been your solace,

and believe't not lightly...

though I go alone,

like to a lonely dragon,

that his fen makes fear'd
and talkt of more than seen,

your son will or exceed the common

or be caught with
cautelous baits and practice.

My first son.

Whither wilt thou go?

Take good Cominius
with thee awhile.

Determine on some course,

more than a wild exposture

to each chance that
starts i'the way before thee.

O the gods!

I'll follow thee a month,

devise with thee where
thou shalt rest,

that thou mayst 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'the
absence of the needer.

Fare ye well. Thou
hast years upon thee,

and thou art too full
of the wars' surfeits

to go rove with one
that's yet unbruised.

Bring me but out at gate.

Come now, my sweet wife,

my dearest mother, and my
friends of nobler touch,

when I am forth, bid
me farewell, and... smile.

I pray you, come.

While I remain above the ground,
you shall hear from me still,

and never of me aught
but what is like me...

...formerly.

Pray, come.

The nobility are vext, 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.

Here comes his mother.
Let's not meet her.

-Why?
-They say she's mad.

O, ye'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.

-Ah, 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!

More noble blows
than ever thou wise words.

And for Rome's good.

I'll tell thee what...

Yet go!

(She weeps)

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 continued 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 incensed 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've 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...

There hath been in Rome
strange insurrections,

the people against the senators,
patricians, and nobles.

Hath been? Is it ended, then?

Our state thinks not so.

They are in most
warlike preparation

and hope to come upon them
in the heat of their division.

The main blaze of it is past,

but a small thing would
make it flame again.

For the nobles receive so to heart

the banishment of
that worthy Coriolanus

that they are in a ripe aptness
to take all power from the people

and to pluck from them
their tribunes for ever.

This lies glowing, I can tell you,

and is almost mature
for the violent breaking out.

Coriolanus banished?

Banished, sir.

You will be welcome
with this intelligence.

The day serves well for them now.

I have heard it said the fittest
time to corrupt a man's wife

is when she's fallen out
with her husband.

Your noble Tullus Aufidius
will appear well in these wars,

his great opposer, Coriolanus,

being now in no
request of his country.

A goodly city is this... Antium.

City!

'Tis I that made thy widows.

And many an heir of these
fair edifices 'fore my wars

have I heard groan and drop.

Then know me not, lest
that thy wives with spits...

...and boys with stones in puny battle...

...slay me.

Save you, sir.

And you.

Direct me, if it be your will,
where great Aufidius lies.

-Is he in Antium?
-He is.

Which is his house, beseech you?

-This, here before you.
-I thank you, sir.

Farewell.

O, world, thy slippery turns.

Friends now fast sworn,

whose double bosoms
seem to wear one heart,

whose hours, whose bed, whose meal,
and exercise, are still together,

who twin, as 'twere,
in love unseparable,

shall within this hour,
on a dissension of a doit,

break out to bitterest enmity.

So, fellest foes, whose passions

and whose plots have
broke their sleep,

to take the one the other,

by some chance, some
trick not worth an egg,

shall grow dear friends...

...and interjoin their issues.

So with me.

My birthplace hate I...

...and my love's upon this...
enemy town.

I'll enter.

If he slay me,
he does fair justice.

If he give me way,
I'll do his country...

...service.

Whence comest thou?

What wouldst thou?

Thy name?

Why speak'st not?
Speak, man, what's thy name?

If, Tullus, not yet
thou knowest me,

and, seeing me, dost not
think me for the man I am,

necessity commands me name
myself. -What is thy name?

A name unmusical to the Volscian
ears, and harsh in sound to thine.

Say!

What's thy name?

Thou hast a grim appearance, and
thy face bears a command in't.

Though thy tackle's torn,
thou show'st a noble vessel.

What's thy name?

Prepare thy brow to frown.

Know'st thou me yet?

I know thee not.

Thy name?

My name is Caius Marcius...

who hath done to thee particularly,
and to all the Volsces,

great hurt and mischief.

Thereto witness may my surname.

Coriolanus.

The painful service,

the extreme dangers

and the drops of blood shed
for my thankless country

are requited
but with that surname.

A good memory and
witness of the malice

and displeasure which
thou shouldst bear me.

Only that name remains.

The cruelty and
envy of the people,

permitted by our dastard nobles,
who have all forsook me,

hath devour'd the rest,

and suffer'd me by the voice of
slaves to be whoopt out of Rome.

Now this extremity hath
brought me to thy hearth.

Not out of hope, mistake
me not, to save my life,

for if I had fear'd death,

of all the men i'the world
I would have 'voided thee.

But in mere... spite,

to be full quit of those my
banishers, stand I before thee here.

Then, if thou hast
a heart of wreak in thee,

that wilt revenge thine
own particular wrongs

and stop those maims of shame
seen through thy country,

speed thee straight, and make
my misery serve thy turn.

So use it that my
revengeful services

may prove as benefits to thee,

for I will fight against
my canker'd country

with the spleen of
all the under-fiends.

But if so be thou darest not this

and that to prove more
fortunes thou'rt tired,

then, in a word, I also am
longer to live most weary...

...and present my throat to thee
and to thy ancient malice,

which not to cut would
show thee but a fool,

since I've ever follow'd
thee with hate,

drawn tuns of blood out
from thy country's breast,

and cannot live but to thy shame,

unless it be to do thee...

...service!

O, Marcius, Marcius!

Each word thou hast
spoke hath weeded

from my heart a root
of ancient envy.

If Jupiter should
from yond cloud

speak divine things and
say, "Tis true,"

I'd not believe them
more than thee.

All noble Marcius.

Let me twine mine arms
about that body...

...where against my grained ash

an hundred times hath broke and
scarr'd the moon with splinters.

Here I clip the
anvil of my sword...

...and do contest as hotly
and as nobly with thy love...

...as ever in ambitious strength
I did contend against thy valour.

Know thou first, I loved
the maid I married.

Never man sigh'd truer breath,

but that I see thee
here, thou noble thing!

More dances my rapt heart than

when I first my wedded mistress
saw bestride my threshold.

Why, thou...

...Mars!

I tell thee,

we have a power on foot,

and I had purpose once more
to hew thy target from thy brawn,

or lose my arm for't.

Thou hast beat me out
twelve several times,

and I have nightly since dreamt of
encounters 'twixt thyself and me.

We have been down
together in my sleep,

unbuckling helms,
fixing each other's throat,

and... waked
half-dead with nothing.

Worthy Marcius.

Had we no other
quarrel else to Rome,

but that thou art
thence banisht,

we would muster all
from twelve to seventy,

and pouring war into the
bowels of ungrateful Rome,

like a bold flood, o'erbear it.

Come, go in.

And take our friendly
senators by the hands,

who now are here,
taking their leaves of me,

who am prepared against
your territories.

-Though not for Rome itself.
-You bless me, gods!

Therefore, most absolute sir...

...if thou wilt have the
leading of thine own revenges...

...take the one half
of my commission...

...and set down, as best
thou art experienced,

since thou know'st thy country's
strength and weakness,

thine own ways,

whether to knock against
the gates of Rome,

or rudely visit them
in parts remote,

to fright them, ere destroy.

But come in.

Let me commend thee first to those
that shall say yea to thy desires.

A thousand welcomes!

And more a friend
than e'er an enemy.

Yet, Marcius, that was much.

We hear not of him,
neither need we fear him.

His remedies are tame i'the present
peace and quietness of the people,

which before were in wild hurry.

Here do we make his friends
blush that the world goes well,

who rather had, though they
themselves did suffer by't,

behold dissentious numbers
pestering streets...

(Sighs)

...than see our tradesmen
singing in their shops

and going about
their functions friendly.

We stood to't in good time.
Is this Menenius?

(Sighs)

Hmm. 'Tis he, 'tis he.

Hail, sir!

Hail to you both.

Your Coriolanus is not much
mist, but with his friends.

The commonwealth doth
stand, and so would do,

were he more angry at it.

-Where is he, hear you?
-No, I hear nothing.

His mother and his wife
hear nothing from him.

Worthy tribunes, there is a slave,
whom we have put in prison,

reports the Volsces,
with two several powers,

are enter'd in the
Roman territories,

and with the deepest malice of the
war destroy what lies before 'em.

'Tis Aufidius who, hearing
of our Marcius' banishment,

thrusts forth his horns
again into the world,

which were inshell'd when
Marcius stood for Rome,

and durst not once peep out.

Come, what talk you of Marcius?

Go, see this rumourer whipt.

It cannot be the Volsces
dare break with us.

Cannot be?

I have record that
very well it can,

and three examples of the like
have been within my age.

-Tell not me. I know this
cannot be. -Not possible.

The nobles in great earnestness
are coming all to the senate-house.

Some news there is that
stirs their countenances.

'Tis this slave.

Go, whip him 'fore
the people's eyes.

His raising, nothing
but his report.

The slave's report is seconded,

and more, more
fearful, is deliver'd.

What more fearful?

It is spoke freely out of many
mouths, how probably I do not know,

that Marcius, join'd with Aufidius,
leads a power 'gainst Rome,

and vows revenge as
spacious as between

the young'st and oldest thing.

O, you have made good work!

What news?

If Marcius should be join'd
with Volscians...

If?

He is their god.

He leads them like a thing made
by some other deity than nature

that shapes man better,

and they follow him,
against us brats,

with no less confidence than boys
pursuing summer butterflies,

or butchers killing flies.

You have made good work,
you and your apron-men,

that stood so much
on the voice of occupation

and the breath of garlic-eaters!

All the regions do
smilingly revolt,

and who resist are mockt
for valiant ignorance

and perish constant fools.

Who is't can blame him?

Your enemies and his
find something in him.

We are all undone, unless
the noble man have mercy.

Who shall ask it?

The tribunes cannot
do't for shame,

the people deserve such pity of him
as the wolf does of the shepherds.

For his best friends,

if they should say,
be good to Rome,

they charged him even
as those should do

that had deserved his hate,
and therein show'd like enemies.

If he were putting to my house
the brand that should consume it,

I have not the face to say,
"Beseech you, cease."

You have brought
a trembling upon Rome.

-Say not, we brought it.
-How! Was't we?

We loved him,

but like beasts and cowardly nobles,
gave way unto your clusters,

who did hoot him out o'the city.

But I fear they'll
roar him in again.

Tullus Aufidius, the
second name of men,

obeys his points as
if he were his officer.

Desperation is all the policy,

strength and defence that
Rome can make against them.

(Doors open)

Here come the clusters.

You have made the
air unwholesome,

when you cast your
stinking greasy caps

in hooting at Coriolanus' exile.

Faith, we hear fearful news.

For mine own part, when I said,
banish him, I said 'twas pity.

-And so did I.
-And so did I.

And, to say the truth,
so did very many of us.

That we did, we did for the best,

and though we willingly
consented to his banishment,

yet it was against our will.

You're goodly things, you voices!

(Muttering)

You have made good work,
you and your cry!

Do they still fly to the Roman?

I do not know what
witchcraft's in him,

but your soldiers use him
as the grace 'fore meat,

their talk at table,
and their thanks at end,

and you are darken'd by this
action, sir, even by your own.

I cannot help it now.

Unless, by using means,
I lame the foot of our design.

He bears himself more
proudlier, even to my person,

than I thought he would
when first I did embrace him.

Yet his nature in
that's no changeling,

and I must excuse
what cannot be amended.

Yet I wish, sir...

I mean for your particular,

you had not join'd
in commission with him

but either had borne
the action of yourself,

or else to him had left it solely.

I understand thee well,
and be thou sure,

when he shall come
to his account,

he knows not what I
can urge against him.

Although it seems,
and so he thinks,

and is no less apparent
to the vulgar eye,

that he bears all things fairly,

and shows good husbandry
for the Volscian state,

fights dragon-like, and does
achieve as soon as draw his sword,

yet he hath left undone that
which shall break his neck.

Or hazard mine, whene'er
we come to our account.

Sir, I beseech you,
think you he'll carry Rome?

(Chuckles)

All places yield to him
ere he sits down.

And the nobility of Rome are his.

The senators and patricians
love him too.

The tribunes are no soldiers,

and their people will
be as rash in the repeal

as hasty to expel him thence.

I think he'll be to Rome
as is the osprey to the fish,

who takes it by
sovereignty of nature.

First he was a noble
servant to them but...

he could not carry
his honours even.

Whether 'twas pride,
which out of daily fortune

ever taints the happy man...

...whether defect of judgment,

to fail in the disposing of those
chances which he was lord of,

or whether nature...

...not to be other than one thing,

not moving from the
casque to the cushion,

but commanding peace even
with the same austerity and garb

as he controll'd the war,

but one of these.

As he hath spices of them all, not
all, for I dare so far free him...

...made him fear'd...

...so hated...

...and so banish'd.

But he has a merit to choke
it in the utterance.

So...

...our virtues lie in the
interpretation of the time...

...and power, unto itself
most commendable...

hath not a tomb so evident as a
chair to extol what it hath done.

One fire drives out one fire,

one nail, one nail.

Rights by rights falter.

Strengths by strengths... do fail.

I tell you, he does sit in gold,
his eye red as 'twould burn Rome,

and his injury the
gaoler to his pity.

I kneel'd before him.

'Twas very faintly
he said, "Rise,"

dismiss'd me thus,
with his speechless hand.

You hear what he hath said
which was sometime his general,

who loved him in
a most dear particular.

He call'd me father.

But what o'that?

Go, you that banish'd him, a
mile before his tent fall down,

and knee the way
into his mercy.

Nay, if he coy'd to hear Cominius
speak, I'll keep at home.

-He would not seem to know me.
-Do you hear?

Yet one time he did call
me by my name.

I urged our old acquaintance

and the drops that we
have bled together.

Coriolanus he would not
answer to, forbad all names.

He was a kind of...

nothing,

titleless,

till he had forged himself a name
in the fire of burning Rome.

Why, so!

You have made good work.

A pair of tribunes that have rack'd
for Rome to make coals cheap.

A noble memory!

I minded him how royal 'twas to
pardon when it was less expected.

He replied, it was
a bare petition of a state

to one whom they had punisht.

Very well.
Could he say less?

I offer'd to awaken his regard
for his private friends.

His answer to me was,

he could not stay to pick them
in a pile of noisome, musty chaff.

He said 'twas folly, for one poor
grain or two, to leave unburnt,

and still to nose the offence.

For one poor grain or two?

I am one of those.

His mother, wife, his child,
and this brave fellow too,

we are the grains,
you are the musty chaff,

and you are smelt above the moon.

-We must be burnt for you.
-Nay, pray be patient.

If you refuse your aid
in this so never-needed help,

yet do not upbraid's for...

...our distress.

But, sure, if you would
be your country's pleader,

your good tongue,

more than the instant army we can
make, might stop our countryman.

No, I'll not meddle.

-Pray you, go to him.
-What should I do?

Only make trial what your love can
do for Rome towards Marcius.

Well, and say that
Marcius return me,

as Cominius is
return'd, unheard,

what then?

But as a discontented friend,

grief-shot with his unkindness?
Say't be so?

Yet your good will must have
that thanks from Rome,

after the measure
as you intended well.

I'll undertake't.
I think he'll hear me.

And the glorious gods
love thee no worse than

thy old father Menenius does!

O, my son.

My son.

Thou art preparing fire for us.

Look thee.

Here is water to quench it.

I was hardly moved
to come to thee,

but being assured that none
but myself could move thee,

I have been blown out
of thy gates with sighs...

...and conjure thee
to pardon Rome...

...and thy petitionary countrymen.

Away.

How away?

Wife, mother, child... I know not.

My affairs are
servanted to others.

Though I owe my
revenge properly,

my remission lies
in Volscian breasts.

That we have been familiar,
ingrate forgetfulness shall poison,

rather than pity note how much.

Therefore, be gone.

My ears against your
suits are stronger

than your gates
against my force.

Yet...

...for I loved thee,
take this along.

I writ it for thy sake
and would have sent it.

Another word, Menenius,
I will not hear thee speak.

This man, Aufidius...

...was my beloved in Rome.

Yet... thou behold'st!

You keep a constant temper.

See you yond coign o'the Capitol,
yond corner-stone?

Why, what of that?

If it be possible for
you to displace it

with your little finger,

there is some hope that the ladies
of Rome, especially his mother,

may prevail with him.

But I say there is no hope in't.

Our throats are sentenced
and stay upon execution.

Is't possible that so short a time
can alter the condition of a man!

There is differency between
a grub and a butterfly,

yet your butterfly was a grub.

This Marcius is grown
from man to dragon.

He has wings.

He is more than a creeping thing.

He loved his mother dearly.

So did he me.

He no more remembers his mother
now than an eight-year-old horse.

The tartness of his face
sours ripe grapes.

He sits in his state like
a thing made for Alexander.

What he bids be done
is finished with his bidding.

He wants nothing of a god but
eternity and a heaven to throne in.

Yes, mercy, if you
report him truly.

I paint him in the character.

Mark what mercy his mother
shall bring from him.

There is no more mercy in him
than there is milk in a male tiger.

That, shall our poor city find,

and all this is long of you.

The gods be good unto us!

No, in such a case the gods
will not be good unto us.

When we banished him,
we respected not them.

And he returning to break our
necks, they respect not us.

This last old man, whom with a
crackt heart I have sent to Rome,

loved 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.

My wife comes foremost.

Then the honour'd mould
wherein this trunk was framed...

... 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 supplicatlon 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
changed 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.

Ye gods! I prate,

and the most noble mother
in 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 blest,

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's 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 curdied
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.

Your knee, sirrah.

That's my brave boy.

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.

Bid me dismiss my soldiers
or capitulate again

with Rome's mechanics.

Tell me not wherein
I seem unnatural.

Desire not to ally 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 father,

the husband,

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
thorough 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 cannot persuade thee rather
to show a noble grace to both sides

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,

which 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've show'd,"

the Romans, "This we received,"

and each in either side
give the all-hail to thee

and cry, "Be blest 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
shall be dogg'd with curses,

whose chronicle thus writ,

"The man was noble,

"but with his last attempt he wiped
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.

(Weeps)

He cares not for your weeping.

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.

(She gasps)

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's go.

This fellow had a
Volscian to his mother,

his wife is in Corioli and his
child like him by chance.

Nay...

Give us our dispatch.

I am hush'd...

until our city be a-fire.

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.

(She weeps)

Aufidius.

Though I cannot make true wars...

...I'll frame convenient peace.

And good Aufidius,
were you in my stead,

would you have heard a mother
less or granted less?

Aufidius?

I was moved 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.

No...

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.

Behold our patroness,
the life of Rome!

Call all your tribes together,

praise the gods,
and make triumphant fires.

Strew flowers before them.

Unshout the noise
that banisht Marcius,

repeal him with the
welcome of his mother.

Cry, "Welcome, ladies, welcome!"

Welcome, ladies.

Welcome.

Go tell the lords
o'the city I am here.

Deliver them this paper.

Most noble sir,

if you do hold the same intent
wherein you wish'd us parties,

we'll deliver you of
your great danger.

Sir, I cannot tell.

We must proceed as
we do find the people.

The people will remain uncertain

whilst 'twixt you
there's difference,

but the fall of either makes
the survivor heir of all.

I know it.

And my pretext to strike at him
admits a good construction.

He came unto my hearth,
presented to my knife his throat.

I took him,

made him joint-servant with me,

gave him way in all
his own desires,

nay, let him choose out of my
ranks, his projects to accomplish,

my best and freshest men,

served his designments
in mine own person,

holp to reap the fame
which he did end all his...

...and took some pride
to do myself this wrong...

...till, at the last, I seem'd
his follower, and not partner...

...and he waged me
with his countenance,

as if I had been mercenary.

So he did, my lord.
The army marvell'd at it.

And, in the last, when
he had carried Rome

and that we lookt for
no less spoil than glory...

There was it.

For which, my sinews
shall be stretch'd upon him.

At a few drops of women's rheum,
which are as cheap as lies,

he sold the blood and
labour of our great action.

Therefore shall he die.

And I'll renew me...

...in his fall.

Hail, lords.

I am return'd... your soldier.

No more infected with my country's
love than when I parted hence,

but still subsisting
under your great command.

You are to know that prosperously
I have attempted

and with bloody passage led your
wars even to the gates of Rome.

Our spoils we have brought home

doth more than counterpoise
a full third part

the charges of the action.

We have made...

...peace

with no less honour to the Antiates
than shame to the Romans,

and here deliver, subscribed
by the consuls and patricians,

together with the
seal o'the senate,

what we have compounded on.

Read it not, noble lords...

...but tell the traitor
in the high'st degree

he hath abused your powers.

Traitor? How now?

Ay, traitor, Marcius.

-Marcius?
-Ay, Marcius.

Caius Marcius.

Dost thou think I'll grace
thee with that robbery,

thy stol'n name Coriolanus,

In Corioli?

You lords and heads o'the state,

perfidiously he has
betray'd your business,

and given up, for certain drops
of salt, your city Rome.

I say, your city,

to his wife...

...and mother,

breaking his oath and resolution
like a twist of rotten silk,

never admitting
counsels o'the war,

but at his nurse's tears he whined
and roar'd away your victory...

...that pages blush'd
at him and men of heart

look'd wondering each at other.

Hear'st thou, Mars?

Name not the god, thou boy of tears!

(Hisses)

-No more.
-Measureless liar!

Thou hast made my heart
too great for what contains it.

Boy!

O, slave!

Pardon me, lords,
'tis the first time

that ever I was forced to scold.

Your judgments, my grave lords,
must give this cur the lie.

And his own notion,

who wears my stripes
impress'd upon him,

that must bear my
beating to his grave,

shall join to thrust
the lie unto him.

Cut me to pieces, Volsces.

Men and lads, stain
all your edges on me.

Boy!

False hound!

If you have writ your
annals true, 'tis there

that, like an eagle
in a dove-cote,

I flutter'd your
Volscians in Corioli.

Alone I did it.

Boy!

Why, noble lords, will you be
put in mind of his blind fortune,

which was your shame,

by this unholy braggart!

Peace, ho!

No outrage.

Peace!

The man is noble and his fame
folds-in this orb o'the earth.

His last offences to us
shall have judicious hearing.

Stand, Aufidius, and
trouble not the peace.

O, that I had him, with
six Aufidiuses, or more,

his tribe, to use my lawful sword!

Insolent villain.

Kill...

Kill!

Kill!

-Kill!
-Kill...

Kill!

Kill!

Kill!

Kill!

Kill!

Kill!

Kill!

My lords.

When you shall know, as in this
rage, provoked by him, you cannot

the great danger, which
this man's life did owe you,

you'll rejoice that
he is thus... cut off.

My rage is gone.

And I am struck with sorrow.

Though in this city he hath
widow'd and unchilded many a one

which to this hour
bewail the injury...

...yet he shall have
a noble memory.

Subtitling: C.M.C.
(Corrected by Frend)