The Tragedy of Coriolanus. Уильям Шекспир

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      Besides, if things go well,

      Opinion, that so sticks on Marcius, shall

      Of his demerits rob Cominius.

      Come:

      Half all Cominius' honours are to Marcius,

      Though Marcius earn'd them not; and all his faults

      To Marcius shall be honours, though, indeed,

      In aught he merit not.

      Let's hence and hear

      How the dispatch is made; and in what fashion,

      More than in singularity, he goes

      Upon this present action.

      Let's along.

      So, your opinion is, Aufidius,

      That they of Rome are enter'd 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 pressed 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. Nay, more,

      Some parcels of their power are forth already,

      And only hitherward. I 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.

      The gods assist you!

      And keep your honours safe!

      Farewell.

      Farewell.

      ALL. Farewell.

      VOLUMNIA. I pray you, 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 pluck'd 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; that it was no better than picture-like to hang by th' wall if renown made it not stir; – was pleased to let him seek danger where he was 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 had proved himself a man.

      But had he died in the business, madam? how then?

      VOLUMNIA. 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,

      Like to a harvest-man that's tasked to mow

      Or all, or lose his hire.

      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, looked not lovelier

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