Volumnia speaks in grand, sweeping cadences — she thinks in epic terms even in domestic conversation. Watch for how she constantly reframes ordinary things (a mother's love, a wife's worry) as military values: she can't describe tenderness without turning it into a campaign strategy.
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 plucked 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
like 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.
I'm asking you, daughter-in-law, to sing or at least express yourself more cheerfully. If my son were my husband, I would rejoice far more in his absence — where he wins honor — than I would in his bed, where he would show me the most love. When he was still a young, tender boy, my only child, when his beauty made everyone look at him first, when a king would have to ask a mother for an hour away from his presence, I thought about this: 'How will honor look on such a person? It will be like a beautiful picture on a wall — worthless unless it's actually alive and moving.' So I was happy to send him into danger where he would find fame. I sent him to cruel war, and he came back with oak leaves in his hair. I'm telling you the truth, daughter: I felt less joy when I first heard he was born a man than I do now, seeing he's proven himself a man.
Come on, lighten up. Sing a little or at least smile. You know what? If my son were my husband, I'd be way happier when he's away at war — where he's becoming a legend — than I would be having him in bed next to me. When he was little, when he was my only baby and everyone's head would turn when he walked by, I thought, 'What good is beauty if nobody knows about it? What good is he sitting home if nobody's seeing what he can do?' So I pushed him toward danger, toward the places where he could become someone. And he came back wearing the victor's crown. I'm being honest with you: I was less happy the day he was born than I am right now, seeing that he's actually become the man I knew he could be.
sing daughter be cheerful if my son were husband i'd love his war absence more than his bed beauty without action is just paint on a wall i sent him to danger he came back crowned i'm more proud now than the day he was born
Virgilia almost never finishes a sentence — she trails off, defers, protests quietly and then stops. Her verbal habit is the single short line of refusal ('No, good madam') that she repeats until everyone gives up on her. Watch for how her silences carry more weight than her words.
But had he died in the business, madam, how then?
But madam, what if he had died in the fighting?
But what if he died out there? What would you have said then?
but what if he died in battle madam then what
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 Martius, I had
rather had eleven die nobly for their country than one voluptuously
surfeit out of action.
Then his reputation would have been my son — I would have borne children through his name and memory. Listen to what I'm saying: if I had twelve sons, each one equally my love, none less precious than you or my good Martius, I would rather see eleven of them die gloriously for their country than watch one of them live in lazy comfort, doing nothing.
Then his name and his memory would be my son. I would have mourned him, sure. But honestly? If I had twelve kids — all of them as much my children as Martius is — I'd rather watch eleven of them die in battle than see one of them live at home being lazy and comfortable and ordinary.
his good report would be my son had twelve sons equal love rather have eleven die for country than one surfeit in safety
Madam, the Lady Valeria is come to visit you.
Madam, the Lady Valeria has come to visit you.
Madam, Valeria's here to see you.
lady valeria visiting
Beseech you, give me leave to retire myself.
Please, let me leave. I don't want to see anyone.
Can I go? I don't want to see people right now.
let me go retire myself please no visitors
Indeed you shall not.
Methinks I hear hither your husband’s drum,
See him pluck Aufidius down by th’ 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 mailed hand then wiping, forth he goes
Like to a harvestman that’s tasked to mow
Or all or lose his hire.
No, you stay. I think I hear your husband's war drums. I see him pulling Aufidius down by the hair. The Volscians scatter before him like children running from a bear. I hear him shouting: 'Come on, you cowards! You were bred in fear, even though you were born in Rome!' I see him wiping the blood from his forehead with his armored hand and going back to fight like a harvester who has to work or lose his wages.
No, you're staying. Listen — I can almost hear your husband's drums in the distance. I can see him grabbing Aufidius by the hair and throwing him down. The Volscians are running from him like kids running from a bear. I hear him yelling, 'Come on! You're all cowards!' And then he wipes the blood off his face with his gauntlet and gets back to work. He's like a guy who's hired to cut a field — if he doesn't finish, he doesn't get paid.
i hear his drum i see him pull aufidius down by the hair volscians scatter like children he wipes blood comes on cowards like a harvester must work or lose hire
This is Shakespeare's most unsettling portrait of motherhood. Volumnia doesn't simply approve of her son's military career — she has consciously shaped him toward it, deliberately cultivated his pride, and replaced normal human attachment with military ambition. When she says 'If my son were my husband, I should freelier rejoice in that absence wherein he won honour than in the embracements of his bed,' she is being perfectly explicit: she values his reputation more than his life. What's remarkable is that Shakespeare makes her neither a villain nor a caricature. She is genuinely, powerfully moved by her son's achievements. She has a philosophy, coherent and serious, about the relationship between individual honor and public good. But she is also a woman who has constructed a human being (her son) as a monument to her own ideas — and she seems entirely unaware that this is what she's done. Coriolanus's contempt for human connection, his inability to be anything other than a soldier, his violent rejection of 'feminine' sentiment — all of it comes from her, delivered in the name of greatness.
His bloody brow? O Jupiter, no blood!
His bloody brow? Oh god, no blood!
His face is bleeding? Oh no, please tell me he's not hurt!
bloody brow o jupiter no blood please no
Away, you fool! It more becomes a man
Than gilt his trophy. The breasts of Hecuba,
When she did suckle Hector, looked not lovelier
Than Hector’s forehead when it spit forth blood
At Grecian sword, contemning.—Tell Valeria
We are fit to bid her welcome.
Stop that foolishness. Blood on a man's face is more beautiful than gold is. Remember Hecuba, Hector's mother, when she nursed him? Her breasts were never more beautiful than Hector's forehead looked when it bled from a Greek sword — that was beautiful, that was noble. Go tell Valeria we're ready to receive her.
Don't be silly. Blood is more beautiful on a man than gold ever could be. Think about Hecuba nursing Hector — she was never more beautiful than Hector looked with blood on his face from a Greek sword. That was glory. That was what a man should look like. Go tell Valeria we'll see her.
away fool blood more beautiful than gold hecuba nursing hector less lovely than hector's bloody brow tell valeria we will see her
Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius!
May heaven protect my husband from the terrible Aufidius!
God, please protect my husband from Aufidius.
heavens bless my lord from fell aufidius protect him
He’ll beat Aufidius’ head below his knee
And tread upon his neck.
He will smash Aufidius's head below his knee and trample his neck.
He'll break Aufidius. He'll stomp him into the ground.
he'll beat aufidius head below knee trample his neck
Valeria chatters — she fills every silence with warmth and anecdote. Her famous description of Young Martius chasing the butterfly is the only moment of pure, unguarded observation in the scene. Watch for how her cheerfulness sits strangely against the scene's undertow of dread.
My ladies both, good day to you.
Good day to you both, ladies.
Hi, you two. How are you doing?
good day my ladies both
Sweet madam.
Dear madam, good to see you.
Valeria, come in.
sweet madam hello
I am glad to see your Ladyship.
I'm happy to see you, Valeria.
Good to see you.
glad to see you ladyship
Virgilia is one of Shakespeare's most quietly subversive characters. She doesn't have long speeches or memorable lines — she has refusals. 'No, good madam.' 'Indeed, no.' 'No, at a word.' She never argues with her mother-in-law's values; she just declines to share them. And in declining, she becomes the emotional center of the scene. The audience likes her better than Volumnia. We want her to come out with Valeria. We're almost relieved when news of the war reaches them — it gives her an excuse. But what's remarkable about her strategy is that it doesn't work. Not because she's weak, but because the values represented by Volumnia and the State are stronger than individual human preference. Her love for her husband, her fear for his safety, her desire for his presence — all of it is outweighed by larger public narratives. She stays home and sews, and the war goes on without her approval.
How do you both? You are manifest housekeepers. What are you sewing
here? A fine spot, in good faith. How does your little son?
How are you both? You two are always at home sewing. What are you working on there? That's beautiful needlework. And how is your little son?
How are you? You never go out. You're always here working. That's really nice embroidery. So what's your boy up to?
how do you both manifest housekeepers always home sewing fine spot nice work how your son
I thank your Ladyship; well, good madam.
Thank you, Valeria. He's doing well, madam.
He's good, thanks for asking.
thank you well madam he's fine
He had rather see the swords and hear a drum than look upon his
schoolmaster.
He'd rather see weapons and hear drums than attend school.
The kid would rather watch fights than go to class.
he'd rather see swords and drum than schoolmaster
O’ my word, the father’s son! I’ll swear ’tis a very pretty boy. O’ my
troth, I looked upon him o’ Wednesday half an hour together. H’as such
a confirmed countenance. I saw him run after a gilded butterfly, and
when he caught it, he let it go again, and after it again, and over and
over he comes, and up again, catched it again. Or whether his fall
enraged him or how ’twas, he did so set his teeth and tear it. O, I
warrant how he mammocked it!
Honestly, he's his father's son! What a beautiful boy. I just watched him for half an hour last Wednesday. He has such a serious face. I saw him run after a gilded butterfly, and when he caught it, he let it go. Then he chased it again, caught it again, over and over. And then — whether he got angry at his fall or something — he grabbed it and tore it to shreds. I swear, the way he destroyed it!
He's exactly like his father! Seriously, he's such a sweet kid. I watched him the other day for like thirty minutes. He's got such a serious look on his face. So he's chasing this fancy butterfly, right? He catches it, lets it go, chases it again, catches it again — on and on. Then at some point he gets frustrated or angry, and he just tears it apart. I mean, he destroyed that butterfly!
father's son beautiful boy watched him wednesday confirmed countenance chases gilded butterfly catches lets go chases again then tears it destroys it mammocked it
One on’s father’s moods.
That's just his father's nature.
That's pure Martius. He's built for this.
one of father's moods marked him well
Indeed, la, ’tis a noble child.
Indeed, he's a noble little one.
He's got such a noble spirit already.
noble child worth seeing
A crack, madam.
A real handful, madam.
He's a handful.
crack madam troublemaker
Come, lay aside your stitchery. I must have you play the idle huswife
with me this afternoon.
Come on, put down your needlework. You have to come play with me this afternoon — be lazy with me, just for once.
Put away the sewing. Come on, let's go do something fun. You can take an afternoon off for me.
lay aside stitchery play idle huswife with me this afternoon
No, good madam, I will not out of doors.
No, madam. I won't leave the house.
No, I can't go out.
no good madam will not go out of doors
Valeria's account of Young Martius chasing and destroying the butterfly is one of the most famous extended descriptive passages in the play. In five sentences, she captures something essential about violence, repetition, frustration, and masculine power. The boy is doing what small boys do — playing, exploring, learning through destruction. But on this stage, at this moment, with this father and this grandmother, it reads as inevitable: this child is learning to break things, and we are learning to see beauty in his aggression. Valeria, herself, seems charmed by it — she describes it not as cruelty but as spirit. Yet there's something uncomfortable in how cheerfully she narrates the moment when the boy's mood shifts and he tears the butterfly to shreds. It's the moment when play becomes violence, and no one in the scene thinks to object. By the time we see Coriolanus on the battlefield, we will understand this moment was his rehearsal.
Not out of doors?
You won't leave the house?
Why not?
not out of doors why
She shall, she shall.
She will. She absolutely will.
Yes, she will.
she shall she will
Indeed, no, by your patience. I’ll not over the threshold till my lord
return from the wars.
No, by your patience. I won't step over the threshold until my husband comes home from the war.
I'm not going anywhere until my husband comes back from fighting.
no by your patience won't cross threshold till husband returns from wars
Fie, you confine yourself most unreasonably. Come, you must go visit
the good lady that lies in.
That's unreasonable. Come visit the lady who just gave birth.
You're being ridiculous. There's a neighbor who had a baby. Let's go visit her.
confine yourself unreasonably visit good lady that lies in
I will wish her speedy strength and visit her with my prayers, but I
cannot go thither.
I will wish her a quick recovery and pray for her, but I can't go there.
I'll pray for her healing, but I can't actually visit her.
wish her speedy strength visit with prayers but cannot go thither
Why, I pray you?
Why not?
Why? Give me one good reason.
why pray you
’Tis not to save labour, nor that I want love.
It's not to save work, and it's not that I don't love her.
It's not laziness. It's not that I don't care. I just... can't.
not save labour not lack love just can't go
You would be another Penelope. Yet they say all the yarn she spun in
Ulysses’ absence did but fill Ithaca full of moths. Come, I would your
cambric were sensible as your finger, that you might leave pricking it
for pity. Come, you shall go with us.
You'd think you're like Penelope, waiting forever for Ulysses. But everyone knows she spent all her years spinning in his absence just filling Ithaca with moths. Come on, I wish your needlework could feel what your fingers feel — so you'd stop pricking it out of pity. Just come with us.
You think you're Penelope, waiting for Ulysses to come home, right? Well, the thing about Penelope is she spent all those years weaving and all she made was moths. Come on, you need to get out. I wish your cloth was as sensitive as your heart — maybe you'd stop being so sad about poking it. Just come with us.
another penelope wait forever ulysses absence spun yarn ithaca full moths come leave pricking go with us
No, good madam, pardon me; indeed, I will not forth.
No, madam, I'm sorry. I will not go out.
No. I'm not going.
no good madam pardon me will not forth
Virgilia's refusal to leave the house and Valeria's desperate attempts to get her out are framed as domestic comedy — the housewife won't go anywhere. But read more carefully: Virgilia has made a choice to withdraw from public life entirely until her husband returns. She has essentially locked herself in the house and thrown away the key. Is this devotion or breakdown? The play doesn't quite answer. What we know is that the war becomes the only thing that matters — not because Virgilia suddenly agrees with Volumnia's philosophy, but because the war is the one force bigger than Volumnia's will. News of the campaign doesn't persuade Virgilia to go out; it gives her permission to stay in. The war is what she was waiting for, and now that it's happening, her isolation is justified. She doesn't have to argue anymore. She can just sit and sew.
In truth, la, go with me, and I’ll tell you excellent news of your
husband.
In truth, come with me. I have wonderful news about your husband.
I promise, come with me. I've got something good to tell you about Martius.
excellent news of your husband come go with me
O, good madam, there can be none yet.
There can't be any news yet, madam.
There can't be news yet. It's too soon.
cannot be none yet too early war just started
Verily, I do not jest with you. There came news from him last night.
I'm not joking. A messenger brought news from him last night.
I'm serious. I got a message from the front last night.
verily not jest came news last night
Indeed, madam!
Really, madam?
Seriously?
indeed madam
In earnest, it’s true. I heard a senator speak it. Thus it is: the
Volsces have an army forth, against whom Cominius the General is gone
with one part of our Roman power. Your lord and Titus Lartius are set
down before their city Corioles. They nothing doubt prevailing, and to
make it brief wars. This is true, on mine honour, and so, I pray, go
with us.
Yes, truly. A senator told me. Here's what happened: the Volscians have assembled an army. Against them, Cominius — Rome's general — has gone with part of our forces. Your husband and Titus Lartius are positioned outside the Volscian city of Corioles. They don't doubt they'll win. They expect a quick war. This is true, I swear it. So please, come with us now.
Absolutely. A senator told me. Here's the deal: the Volscians are ready for war. Cominius is fighting them with part of Rome's army. Your husband and Titus Lartius have Corioles surrounded. They're confident. They think it'll be a fast win. I'm telling you the truth. So please, come out with us.
true truly senator spoke it volsces army forth cominius general one part roman power martyius titus lartius set down before corioles they doubt not prevailing make it brief wars mine honor come with us
Give me excuse, good madam. I will obey you in everything hereafter.
Forgive me, madam. I will obey you in everything else after this.
I'm sorry. I can't. But I'll do anything else you ask me to do from now on.
give me excuse good madam will obey in everything hereafter
Let her alone, lady. As she is now, she will but disease our better
mirth.
Leave her alone, Valeria. She's too upset right now. She'd only ruin our good mood.
Let her be. She's not in the right mood for fun. She'd bring everyone down.
let her alone lady she will disease our better mirth
In troth, I think she would.—Fare you well, then.—Come, good sweet
lady.—Prithee, Virgilia, turn thy solemness out o’ door, and go along
with us.
You're probably right. Farewell, then. Come, dear Valeria. Virgilia, drop this sadness and come along with us.
Yeah, probably. Goodbye then. Come on, let's go. Virgilia, please, just come with us.
fare you well come sweet lady prithee virgilia turn solemness go along with us
No, at a word, madam. Indeed I must not. I wish you much mirth.
No, madam. I must not. I wish you happiness.
No. I can't. I hope you have fun.
no at word madam indeed must not wish much mirth
Well then, farewell.
All right, then. Goodbye.
Okay. Bye.
well then farewell
The Reckoning
This is the most intimate scene in the play, and also the most disturbing. Volumnia doesn't just support her son's military career — she has engineered it, and she celebrates wounds she hasn't received. Virgilia's silence is the scene's emotional center: she can't argue with Volumnia's values, but she refuses to share them. The audience leaves the scene liking Virgilia far more than Volumnia — and unsettled by how little that matters.
If this happened today…
Imagine a military family's kitchen. The mother of a decorated soldier is telling her daughter-in-law, glowing with pride, about how she pushed her eighteen-year-old son to enlist: 'I told him, it's better to come back with a Purple Heart than to come back wondering what you could have been.' The daughter-in-law just sits there, stirring her coffee, not saying a word — until her mother-in-law suggests they go celebrate at the deployment party. She quietly says no. That's this scene. Volumnia is performatively proud. Virgilia is quietly terrified. And Valeria is the cheerful neighbor who doesn't know how to read the room.