I’ll fight with none but thee, for I do hate thee.
O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge!
A name unmusical to the Volscians’ ears, and harsh in sound to thine.
My name is Caius Martius, who hath done to thee particularly, and to all the Volsces, great hurt and mischief. Thereto witness my surname… Coriolanus. Only that name remains. The cruelty and envy of the people who have all forsook me, hath devoured the rest and suffered me by the voice of slaves, be whooped out of Rome. Now this extremity hath brought me to thy hearth. Not out of hope, mistake me not to save my life. For if I had feared death, of all men in the world I would have avoided thee. But, in mere spite, to be full quit of those my banishers, stand I before thee here. I will fight against my cankered country with the spleen of all the under fiends. But if thou dares not this, then I present my throat to thee and to thy ancient malice. Which not to cut would show thee but a fool, since I have ever followed thee with hate, and cannot live but to thy shame, unless it be to do thee service.
He that will give good words to thee will flatter beneath abhorring. What would you have, you curs that like nor peace nor war? The one affrights you, the other makes you proud. He that trusts to you where he should find you lions, finds you hares; where foxes, geese. Who deserves greatness, deserves your hate.
By Jove himself, it makes the consuls base, and my soul aches to know when two authorities are up, neither supreme, how soon confusion may enter twixt the gap of both and take the one by the other. Thus we debase the nature of our seats and make the rabble call our cares fears, which will, in time, break open the locks of the senate, and bring in the crows to peck the eagles!
I am returned your soldier, no more infected with my country’s love than when I parted hence, but still subsisting under your great command. We have made peace with no less honor to the Volscians than shame to the Romans.
Measureless liar, thou has made my heart too great for what contains it. “Boy”? O slave. Cut me to pieces, Volsces! Men and lads, stain all your edges on me! “Boy”? If you have writ your annals true, ’tis there that, like an eagle in a dovecote, I fluttered your Volscians in Corioles. Alone I did it. “Boy”.
Think upon me? Hang ’em. I would they would forget me.Custom calls me to it. What custom wills, in all things should we do it. What must I say? “Look, sir, my wounds. I got them in my country’s service.”
