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 have showed,” the Romans “This we received,” and each in either side Give the all-hail to thee and cry, “Be blessed 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 will be dogged with curses, Whose chronicle thus writ: “The man was noble, But with his last attempt he wiped it out; Destroyed his country, and his name remains To th’ ensuing age abhorred.” 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’ th’ 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. He cares not for your weeping.—Speak thou, boy. Perhaps thy childishness will move him more Than can our reasons.—There’s no man in the world More bound to’s mother, yet here he lets me prate Like one i’ th’ stocks. Thou hast never in thy life Showed thy dear mother any courtesy When she, poor hen, fond of no second brood, Has clucked 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. (They kneel.) This is the last. So we will home to Rome And die among our neighbours.—Nay, behold’s. 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 us go. (They rise.) This fellow had a Volscian to his mother, His wife is in Corioles, and his child Like him by chance.—Yet give us our dispatch. I am hushed until our city be afire, And then I’ll speak a little. (He holds her by the hand, silent.)

Volumnia Monologue from Coriolanus

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