Coriolanus
Coriolanus is an historical tragedy by William Shakespeare, probably written around 1607-8.
Faith, there have been many great men that have flatter'd the people, who ne'er loved them.
Third Servant: Where dwellest thou?
Coriolanus: Under the canopy.
I'll never
Be such a gosling to obey instinct; but stand,
As if a man were author of himself,
And knew no other kin.
I thank you for your voices, — thank you, —
Your most sweet voices.
One that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in ’t.
Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself,
And so shall starve with feeding.
Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.
But now 'tis odds beyond arithmetic;
And manhood is call'd foolery, when it stands
Against a falling fabric.
Let me have war, say I; it exceeds peace as far as day does night: it's spritely waking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy; mull'd, deaf, sleepy, insensible; a getter of more bastard children than war's a destroyer of men.
His nature is too noble for the world:
He would not flatter Neptune for his trident,
Or Jove for’s power to thunder.
God-den to your worships. More of your conversation would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians.
If you have writ your annals true, ’t is there
That, like an eagle in a dove-cote, I
Flutter’d your Volscians in Corioli:
Alone I did it! Boy!
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.
O world, thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn,
Whose double bosoms seems to wear one heart,
Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal and exercise
Are still together, who twin, as 't were, in love
Unseparable, shall within this hour,
On a dissension of a doit, break out
To bitterest enmity: so, fellest foes,
Whose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep
To take the one the other, by some chance,
Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends
And interjoin their issues. So with me: —
My birthplace hate I, and my love's upon
This enemy town. — I'll enter: if he slay me,
He does fair justice; if he give me way,
I'll do his country service.
If it be honour in your wars to seem
The same you are not, (which, for your best ends,
You adopt your policy) how is it less or worse,
That it shall hold companionship in peace
With honour, as in war, since that to both
It stands in like request?
Hear you this Triton of the minnows? mark you
His absolute shall?
The noble sister of Publicola,
The moon of Rome; chaste as the icicle,
That's curded by the frost from purest snow,
And hangs on Dian's temple: – dear Valeria!