Enter Coriolanus, Volumnia, Virgilia, Menenius, Cominius,
with the yong Nobility of Rome.
Come leaue your teares: a brief farwel: the beaſt
With many heads butts me away. Nay Mother,
Where is your ancient Courage? You were vs'd
To ſay, Extreamities was the trier of ſpirits,
That common chances. Common men could beare,
That when the Sea was calme, all Boats alike
Shew'd Maſterſhip in floating. Fortunes blowes,
When moſt ſtrooke home, being gentle wounded, craues
A Noble cunning. You were vs'd to load me
With Precepts that would make inuincible
The heart that conn'd them.
Oh heauens! O heauens!
Nay, I prythee woman.
Now the Red Peſtilence ſtrike al Trades in Rome,
And Occupations periſh.
What, what, what:
I ſhall be lou'd when I am lack'd. Nay Mother,
Reſume that Spirit, when you were wont to ſay,
If you had beene the Wife of Hercules,
Six of his Labours youl'd haue done, and ſau'd
Your Husband ſo much ſwet. Cominius,
Droope not, Adieu: Farewell my Wife, my Mother,
Ile do well yet. Thou old and true Menenius,
Thy teares are ſalter then a yonger mans,
And venomous to thine eyes. My (ſometime) Generall,
I haue ſeene the Sterne, and thou haſt oft beheld
Heart-hardning ſpectacles. Tell theſe ſad women,
'Tis fond to waile ineuitable ſtrokes,
As 'tis to laugh at 'em. My Mother, you wot well
My hazards ſtill haue beene your ſolace, and
Beleeu't not lightly, though I go alone
Like to a lonely Dragon, that his Fenne
Makes fear'd, and talk'd of more then ſeene: your Sonne
Will or exceed the Common, or be caught
With cautelous baits and practice.
My firſt ſonne,
Whether will thou go? Take good Cominius
With thee awhile: Determine on ſome courſe
More then a wilde expoſture, to each chance
That ſtart's i'th'way before thee.
O the Gods!
Ile follow thee a Moneth, deuiſe with thee
Where thou ſhalt reſt, that thou may'ſt heare of vs,
And we of thee. So if the time thruſt forth
A cauſe for thy Repeale, we ſhall not ſend
O're the vaſt world, to ſeeke a ſingle man,
And looſe aduantage, which doth euer coole
Ith'abſence of the needer.
Fare ye well:
Thou haſt yeares vpon thee, and thou art too full
Of the warres ſurfets, to go roue with one
That's yet vnbruis'd: bring me but out at gate.
Come my ſweet wife, my deereſt Mother, and
My Friends of Noble touch: when I am forth,
Bid me farewell, and ſmile. I pray you come:
While I remaine aboue the ground, you ſhall
Heare from me ſtill, and neuer of me ought
But what is like me formerly.
As any eare can heare. Come, let's not weepe,
If I could ſhake off but one ſeuen yeeres
From theſe old armes and legges, by the good Gods
I'ld with thee, euery foot.
Giue me thy hand, come. Exeunt