Forgive my Tyranny, but do not fay,
For that forgive our Romans. O a Kifs
Long as my Exile, fweet as my Revenge!
Now by the jealous Queen of Heav'n, that Kifs
I carried from thee, Dear; and my true Lip

Hath Virgin'd it e'er fince. You Gods, I pray to you,
And the most noble Mother of the World
Leave unfaluted: Sink my Knee i'th' Earth;
Of the deep Duty, more Impreffion fhew.
Than that of common Sons.

Vol. O ftand up bleft!

Whilft with no fofter Cushion than the Flint

I kneel before thee, and unproperly

Shew Duty as mistaken all the while,

Between the Child and Parent.

Cor. What's this? Your Knees to me?

To your Corrected Son ?

Then let the Pebbles on the hungry Beach

Fillop the Stars: Then, let the mutinous Winds
Strike the proud Cedars 'gainst the fiery Sun:

Murd'ring impoffibility to make

What cannot be,, flight work.

Vol.Thou art my Warrior, I hope to frame thee, Do you know this Lady?

Cor. The noble Sifter of Poplicola:

The Moon of Rome, Chaft as the Ificle,
That's curdied by the Froft from pureft Snow,
And hangs on Dian's Temple: Dear Valeria
Vol. This is a poor Epitome of yours,
Which by th' interpretation of full time,
May thew like all your felf,

Cor. The God of Soldiers,

With the confent of fupream Jove, inform

[Kneels.

[Kneels.

Thy Thoughts with Noblenef, that thou may'ft prove
To Shame unvulnerable, and strike i'th' Wars,

Like a great Sea-mark, ftanding every flaw,

And faving those that Eye thee.

Vol. Your Knee, Sirrah.

Cor. That's my brave Boy.

Vol. Even he, your Wife, this Lady, and my self,

Are Suiters to you.

Cor. I beseech you, Peace:

Or if you'd ask, remember this before;
The thing I have forfworn to grant, may never
Be held by you denial. Do not bid me
Difmifs my Soldiers, or Capitulate

Again with Rome's Mechanicks. Tell me not
Wherein I feem unnatural: Defire not t'allay
My Rages and Revenges, with your colder Reasons.
Vol. Oh, no more: No more:

You have faid you will not grant us any thing:
For we have nothing else to ask, but that
Which you deny already: Yet we will ask,
That if we fail in our requeft, the blame
May hang upon your hardness; therefore hear us.
Cor. Aufidins, and you Volfcies, mark; for we'll
Hear nought from Rome in private. Your Request?
Vol. Should we be filent and not speak, our Raiment
And ftate of Bodies would bewray what Life
We have lead fince thy Exile. Think with thy felf,
How more unfortunate than living Women

Are we come hither; fince that thy fight, which fhould
Make our Hearts Aow with Joy,Hearts dance with Comforts.
Conftrains them weep, and thake with Fear and Sorrow,
Making the Mother, Wife, and Child to fee,

The Son, the Husband, and the Father tea: ing
His Country's Bowels out: And to poor we,
Thine Enmity's moft Capital: Thou barr'ft us
Our Prayers to the Gods, which is a comfort
That all but we enjoy. For how can we?
Alas! how can we, for our Country pray,
Whereto we are bound? Together with thy Victory,
Whereto we are bound? Alack, or we must lose
The Country, our dear Nurfe, or else thy Perfon
Our comfort in the Country. We must find
An eminent Calamity, tho' we had

Our wish, which fide fhou'd win. For either thou
Muft, as a Foreign Recreant be led

With Manacles through our Streets, or else
Triumphantly tread on thy Country's Ruin,
And bear the Palm, for having bravely fhed
Thy Wife and Childrens Blood: For my felf, Son,

I purpose not to wait on Fortune, 'till
Thefe Wars determine: If I cannot perfwade thee
Rather to fhew a noble grace to both parts,

Than feek the end of one; thou shalt no fooner
March to affault thy Country, then to tread
(Truft to't, thou fhall not) on thy Mother's Womb
That brought thee to this World.

Virg. Ay, and mine too, that brought you forth this Boy,

To keep your Name living to Time.

Boy. A fhall not tread on me: I'll run away

Till I am bigger, but then I'll fight.

Cor. Not of a Woman's tenderness to be, Requires no Child, nor Woman's Face to fee: I have fate too long.

Vol. Nay, go not from us thus:

If it were fo, that our Requeft did tend
To fave the Romans, thereby to destroy

The Volfcies, whom you ferve,you might condemn us,
As poyfonous of your Honour. No, our fuit
Is that you reconcile them: While the Volfcies
May fay, this Mercy we have fhew'd; the Romans
This we receiv'd, and each in either fide

Give the All-hail to thee, and cry, be bleft
For making up this Peace. Thou know'ft, Great Son,
The end of War's uncertain; but this certain,
That if thou conquer Rome, the benefit

Which thou shalt thereby reap, is fuch a Name,
Whose repetition will be dogg'd with Curfes:
Whofe Chronicle thus writ, The Man was Noble-
But with his laft Attempt, he wip'd it out,
Destroy'd his Country, and his Name remains
To th' enfuing Age, abhorr'd. Speak to me Son:
Thou haft affected the five ftrains of Honour,
To imitate the Graces of the Gods,

To tear with Thunder the wide Cheeks o'th'Air,
And yet to change thy Sulphur with a Bolt,
That fhould but rive an Oak. Why doft not fpeak?
Think'ft 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

Than can our Reafons. There is no Man in the World
More bound to's Mother, yet here he lets me prate
Like one i'th' Stocks. Thou haft never in thy Life,
Shew'd thy dear Mother any Curtefie,

When the (poor Hen) fond of no fecond Brood,
Has cluck'd thee to the Wars, and fafely home
Loaden with Honour. Say my Requeft's unjuft,
And fpurn me back: But if it be not fo,

Thou art not Honeft, and the Gods will plague thee
That thou reftrain'ft from me the Duty, which
To a Mother's part belongs. He turns away;
Down Ladies; let us fhame him with our Knees.
To his Sir-name, Coriolanus, 'longs more Pride,
Than Pity to our Prayers. Down; and end,
This is the laft. 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 reafon our Petition with more Strength,
Than thou haft to deny't. Come, let us go:
This Fellow had a Volícian to his Mother;
His Wife is in Coriolus, and his Child
Like him by chance; yet give us our Dispatch:

I am hucht until our City be afire, and then I'll speak a little. [Holds her by the Hand, filent.

Cor. O Mother, Mother!

What have you done? Behold, the Heav'ns do ope,
The Gods look down, and this unnatural Scene
They laugh at. Oh, my Mother, Mother: Oh!
You have won a happy. Victory to Rome.
But for your Son, believe it, Oh believe it,
Moft dangerously you have with him prevail'd,
If not moft Mortal to him. But let it come:
Aufidius, though I cannot make true Wars,
I'll frame convenient Peace. Now, good Anfidius,
Were you in my ftead, would you have heard
A Mother lefs? Or granted lefs, Aufidius?
Auf. I was mov'd withal.

Cor. I dare be fworn you were;

And, Sir, it is no little thing to make

Mines Eyes to Iweat Compaffion. But, good Sir,

What

What Peace you'll make, advise me: For my part,
I'll not to Rome, I'll back with you, and pray you
Stand to me in this Caufe. O Mother! Wife!

Auf. I am glad thou haft fet thy Mercy, and thy Honour At difference in thee; out of that I'll work

My felf a former Fortune.

Cor. Ay, by and by; but we will drink together; And you shall bear

Afide.

[To Vol. Virg, &c.

A better witness back than words, which we
On like Conditions, will have counter-feal'd.
Come, enter with us: Ladies, you deferve
To have a Temple built you: All the Swords
In Italy, and her Confederate Arms

Could not have made this Peace.

SCENE IH.

Rome.

Enter Menenius and Sicinius.

[Exeunt.

Men. See you yond Coin o'th'Capitol, yond Corner Stone? Sic. Why, what of that?

Men. If it be poffible for you to difplace it with your little Finger, there is fome hope the Ladies of Rome, efpecially his Mother, may prevail with him. But I fay, there is no hope in't, our Throats are fentenc'd, and ftay upon Execution.

Sic. Is't poffible that fo fhort a time can alter the condition of a Man.

Men. There is difference between a Grub and a Butterfly, yet your Butterfly was a Grub; this Martins is grown from Man to Dragon: He has Wings, he's more than a creeping thing.

Sic. Helov'd his Mother dearly.

Men. So did he me; and he no more remembers his Mother now, than an eight years old Horfe. The tartness of his Face fours ripe Grapes. When he walks, he moves like an Engine, and the Ground fhrinks before his Treading. He is able to pierce a Collet with his Eye: Talks like a Knell, and his hum is a Battery. He fits in his State as a thing made for Alexander. What he bids be done is finish'd with his bidding. He wants nothing of a God, but Eternity, and a Heaven to Throne in.

Sic, Yes, Mercy, if you report him truly.

Men