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 extremities was the trier of spirits;
That common chances common men could bear;
That when the sea was calm, all boats alike
Showed mastership in floating; fortune’s blows
When most struck home, being gentle wounded craves
A noble cunning. You were used to load me
With precepts that would make invincible
The heart that conned them.
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 extremities was the trier of spirits; That common chances common men could bear; That when the sea was calm, all boats alike Showed mastership in floating; fortune’s blows When most struck home, being gentle wounded craves A noble cunning. You were used to load me With precepts that would make invincible The heart that conned them.
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 extremities was the trier of spirits; That common chances common men could bear; That when the sea was calm, all boats alike Showed mastership in floating; fortune’s blows When most struck home, being gentle wounded craves A noble cunning. You were used to load me With precepts that would make invincible The heart that conned them.
come, leave your tears. a brief farewell. the beast with man
The central tension of this farewell scene is that Coriolanus is deploying Volumnia's own teachings against her distress — and it doesn't fully work. He calls up the maxim that 'extremity is the trier of spirits,' reminds her of the Hercules-wife joke, tells her that weeping over the inevitable is as foolish as laughing at it. He is giving her the Roman stoic catechism she put in him. But Volumnia is cracking — her famous composure, the composure she used to watch him go to war and bleed and come home scarred, is failing. Shakespeare is showing us something crucial: there's a difference between the philosophy of courage and its application, and the son has out-hardened the mother who made him hard. She can't take her own medicine.
O heavens! O heavens!
O heavens! O heavens!
O heavens! O heavens!
o heavens! o heavens!
Nay, I prithee, woman—
Nay, I prithee, woman—
Nay, I prithee, woman—
nay, i prithee, woman—
Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome,
And occupations perish!
Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome, And occupations perish!
Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome, And occupations perish!
now the red pestilence strike all trades in rome, and occupa
Virgilia speaks exactly twice in this scene: 'O heavens! O heavens!' and 'O the gods!' That's it. Her husband is being banished, and she produces eight syllables. In an earlier scene (1-3), Volumnia explicitly criticized Virgilia for her softness — for being the kind of woman who couldn't watch her husband bleed with pride. Here, that contrast lands with full weight: Volumnia tries to perform the hardness she preached; Virgilia simply feels what she feels and cannot speak. There's an argument that Virgilia's silence is the most honest response in the scene. Everyone else is managing — Coriolanus manages, Menenius manages, even Volumnia manages, imperfectly. Virgilia just grieves. Shakespeare gives her almost nothing to say, and makes it the most human moment.
What, what, what!
I shall be loved when I am lacked. Nay, 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.—Cominius,
Droop not. Adieu.—Farewell, my wife, my mother.
I’ll do well yet.—Thou old and true Menenius,
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-hard’ning spectacles. Tell these sad women
’Tis fond to wail inevitable strokes
As ’tis to laugh at ’em.—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 feared and talked of more than seen, your son
Will or exceed the common or be caught
With cautelous baits and practice.
What, what, what! I shall be loved when I am lacked. Nay, 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.—Cominius, Droop not. Adieu.—Farewell, my wife, my mother. I’ll do well yet.—Thou old and true Menenius, 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-hard’ning spectacles. Tell these sad women ’Tis fond to wail inevitable strokes As ’tis to laugh at ’em.—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 feared and talked of more than seen, your son Will or exceed the common or be caught With cautelous baits and practice.
What, what, what! I shall be loved when I am lacked. Nay, 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.—Cominius, Droop not. Adieu.—Farewell, my wife, my mother. I’ll do well yet.—Thou old and true Menenius, 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-hard’ning spectacles. Tell these sad women ’Tis fond to wail inevitable strokes As ’tis to laugh at ’em.—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 feared and talked of more than seen, your son Will or exceed the common or be caught With cautelous baits and practice.
what, what, what! i shall be loved when i am lacked. nay, mo
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’ th’ way before thee.
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’ th’ way before thee.
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’ th’ way before thee.
my first son, whither wilt thou go? take good cominius with
O the gods!
O the gods!
O the gods!
o the gods!
The image Coriolanus chooses for himself as he walks into exile is revealing: 'like a lonely dragon that his fen / Makes feared and talked of more than seen.' Not a general, not a soldier — a monster in a swamp. Dangerous, solitary, more myth than man. This is the psychic move he's making in real time: converting humiliation into mystique. If Rome has driven him out, he'll be more frightening outside the walls than inside them. The dragon in his fen is the opposite of the consul at the podium — it's power without civic accountability. And it anticipates exactly what he becomes in the next two acts: a force of nature moving toward Rome with Aufidius's army, feared and talked of, barely seen.
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’ th’ absence of the needer.
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’ th’ absence of the needer.
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’ th’ absence of the needer.
i’ll follow thee a month, devise with thee where thou shalt
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, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and
My friends of noble 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.
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, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and My friends of noble 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.
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, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and My friends of noble 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.
fare ye well. thou hast years upon thee, and thou art too fu
That’s worthily
As any ear can hear. Come, let’s not weep.
If I could shake off but one seven years
From these old arms and legs, by the good gods,
I’d with thee every foot.
That’s worthily As any ear can hear. Come, let’s not weep. If I could shake off but one seven years From these old arms and legs, by the good gods, I’d with thee every foot.
That’s worthily As any ear can hear. Come, let’s not weep. If I could shake off but one seven years From these old arms and legs, by the good gods, I’d with thee every foot.
that’s worthily as any ear can hear. come, let’s not weep. i
Give me thy hand.
Come.
Give me thy hand. Come.
Give me thy hand. Come.
give me thy hand. come.
The Reckoning
This is the emotional counter-weight to all the fury of Act 3. Coriolanus, who could not bend to Rome's citizens, here tries to shore up his family with the same precepts his mother once poured into him — and it half-works, half-doesn't. Volumnia is cracking, Virgilia is openly weeping, and even Menenius's old eyes are running. He walks away from everything he has ever known, and the last image is his hand in Menenius's — before the gate closes.
If this happened today…
A decorated military officer, just fired under political pressure, walks out of the Pentagon with his wife, his mother, two generals, and his old mentor. He's trying to stay composed — actually quoting the tough-love advice his mother gave him growing up. She's barely holding it together. His wife is crying. One of the generals says he'd come with him if he were twenty years younger. They walk him to the parking lot. He gets in his car and drives away alone.