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COMINIUS: |
Look, sir, your mother! |
CORIOLANUS: |
O, |
You have, I know, petition'd all the gods |
For my prosperity! |
VOLUMNIA: |
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! |
CORIOLANUS: |
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. |
MENENIUS: |
Now, the gods crown thee! |
CORIOLANUS: |
And live you yet? |
O my sweet lady, pardon. |
VOLUMNIA: |
I know not where to turn: O, welcome home: |
And welcome, general: and ye're welcome all. |
MENENIUS: |
A hundred thousand welcomes. I could weep |
And I could laugh, I am light and heavy. Welcome. |
A curse begin at very root on's heart, |
That is not glad to see thee! You are three |
That Rome should dote on: yet, by the faith of men, |
We have some old crab-trees here |
at home that will not |
Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors: |
We call a nettle but a nettle and |
The faults of fools but folly. |
COMINIUS: |
Ever right. |
CORIOLANUS: |
Menenius ever, ever. |
Herald: |
Give way there, and go on! |
CORIOLANUS: |
VOLUMNIA: |
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. |
CORIOLANUS: |
Know, good mother, |
I had rather be their servant in my way, |
Than sway with them in theirs. |
COMINIUS: |
On, to the Capitol! |
BRUTUS: |
All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights |
Are spectacled to see him: your prattling nurse |
Into a rapture lets her baby cry |
While she chats him: the kitchen malkin pins |
Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck, |
Clambering the walls to eye him: stalls, bulks, windows, |
Are smother'd up, leads fill'd, and ridges horsed |
With variable complexions, all agreeing |
In earnestness to see him: seld-shown flamens |
Do press among the popular throngs and puff |
To win a vulgar station: or veil'd dames |
Commit the war of white and damask in |
Their nicely-gawded cheeks to the wanton spoil |
Of Phoebus' burning kisses: such a pother |
As if that whatsoever god who leads him |
Were slily crept into his human powers |
And gave him graceful posture. |
SICINIUS: |
On the sudden, |
I warrant him consul. |
BRUTUS: |
Then our office may, |
During his power, go sleep. |
SICINIUS: |
Subsets and Splits