If I should tell thee o’er this thy day’s work,
Thou’t not believe thy deeds. But I’ll report it
Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles;
Where great patricians shall attend and shrug,
I’ th’ end admire; where ladies shall be frighted
And, gladly quaked, hear more; where the dull tribunes,
That with the fusty plebeians hate thine honours,
Shall say against their hearts “We thank the gods
Our Rome hath such a soldier.”
Yet cam’st thou to a morsel of this feast,
Having fully dined before.
If I were to tell you about your day's work, you wouldn't believe your own deeds. But I will report it to places where senators will mix tears with smiles, where great nobles will listen and eventually admire, where ladies will be frightened and eagerly want to hear more, where the dull tribunes, who with the common people hate your honors, will say against their true feelings "We thank the gods our Rome has such a soldier." Yet you've only had a taste of this feast, having already eaten a full meal before.
If I told you everything you did today, you wouldn't believe it yourself. But I will tell senators and they'll cry and smile at the same time. The nobles will listen and eventually admire you. The ladies will be scared and excited to hear more. Even those dumb tribunes who hate you with the common people will secretly say "Thank the gods Rome has a soldier like this." But you've barely scratched the surface—you already did enough for ten men.
ur deeds r legendary. senators will cry. ladies will freak. tribunes will admit ur great
O general,
Here is the steed, we the caparison.
Hadst thou beheld—
Oh general, here is the horse; we are merely the ornaments for it. If you had seen—
Oh general, here's the horse; we're just the decorations on it. If you had seen—
hes the star. we r just extras
Pray now, no more. My mother,
Who has a charter to extol her blood,
When she does praise me grieves me. I have done
As you have done—that’s what I can;
Induced as you have been—that’s for my country.
He that has but effected his good will
Hath overta’en mine act.
Please, no more. My mother has the right to praise her own blood, When she praises me it causes me pain. I've done what you've done—that's all I can do; I was put in the same situation as you—that's for my country. Anyone who has simply followed his conscience has done more than I have.
Please stop. My mother has every right to brag about me, but when she does it bothers me. I've done what you've done—nothing special; I was in the same position you were—just doing my job. Someone who just follows his conscience has actually done better than me.
please stop my mom brags i just did what u did its for our country thats it
You shall not be
The grave of your deserving. Rome must know
The value of her own. ’Twere a concealment
Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement,
To hide your doings and to silence that
Which, to the spire and top of praises vouched,
Would seem but modest. Therefore, I beseech you—
In sign of what you are, not to reward
What you have done—before our army hear me.
You shouldn't bury your achievements in silence. Rome needs to understand what you're worth. Hiding what you've done would be like stealing, even worse than betrayal, to conceal your deeds and ignore What should be shouted from the highest places, would sound almost humble. So I'm begging you— To make known who you are, not to reward what you've accomplished—let our soldiers hear me first.
Don't hide what you've done. Rome needs to know how much you're worth. If you hide it, that's like theft, it's like betraying yourself, to keep your deeds secret when everyone should know about them, when praise would barely do them justice. So I'm asking you— Let people know who you are, not as a reward for what you've done—but let the army hear this first.
dont hide ur deeds rome needs to know if u hide it its theft lets tell the army
I have some wounds upon me, and they smart
To hear themselves remembered.
I have some wounds on me, and they hurt to have them mentioned.
I have wounds that sting when I'm reminded of them.
wounds hurt when u talk about em
Should they not,
Well might they fester ’gainst ingratitude
And tent themselves with death. Of all the horses—
Whereof we have ta’en good and good store—of all
The treasure in this field achieved and city,
We render you the tenth, to be ta’en forth
Before the common distribution
At your only choice.
If they didn't, They might very well get infected by ingratitude And poison themselves with death. We have captured many horses— Of both fine quality and good quantity—and all The riches won in this battle and city, We give you one-tenth, to be taken away Before the common division Choosing only for yourself.
If they didn't, they could get infected with ingratitude and essentially kill themselves from it. We've captured tons of horses— good ones and lots of them—and all the treasure we've won from this battle and city, we're giving you ten percent to keep before we divide up the rest and you get to pick first.
if not theyll poison themselves we got tons of horses all the treasure u get 10 percent u pick first
I thank you, general,
But cannot make my heart consent to take
A bribe to pay my sword. I do refuse it;
And stand upon my common part with those
That have beheld the doing.
I thank you, general, but I cannot bring myself to accept money as payment for using my sword. I refuse it. I want to remain equal with the soldiers who actually witnessed what was done.
Thanks, general, but I can't take money for doing my job as a soldier. I'm refusing it. I want to stay at the same level as the guys who were actually there fighting.
thanks general. can't take payment for my sword work. i refuse. stand equal with guys who saw it
May these same instruments which, you profane,
Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall
I’ th’ field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be
Made all of false-faced soothing! When steel grows soft
Soft as the parasite’s silk, let him be made
An ovator for the wars! No more, I say.
For that I have not washed my nose that bled,
Or foiled some debile wretch—which, without note,
Here’s many else have done—you shout me forth
In acclamations hyperbolical,
As if I loved my little should be dieted
In praises sauced with lies.
May these instruments you've turned into mere flattery never sound again! If drums and trumpets in battle become nothing but tools of false praise, then let our courts and cities be completely filled with deception and lies! If steel becomes as soft as a parasite's silk, then let him be made a lesser honoree for the wars! Enough! Because I got a bloody nose and defeated a weak wretch—something many others have done without any recognition—you're shouting exaggerated praises about me as if I wanted my modest deeds celebrated with lies.
May these war instruments never sound again if you're just going to use them for flattery! If drums and trumpets in the field become nothing but tools for fake praise, then let our whole society become filled with deception and false flattery! If steel becomes as soft as a parasite's clothing, then let him be honored for warfare! I'm serious—stop! I got a bloody nose and beat some weak guy. Plenty of other soldiers have done that without being celebrated. And you're acting like I love being turned into a hero with exaggerated, lying praise!
stop using these for flattery i got a bloody nose & beat a weak guy so did tons of ppl w/o recognition u making it sound huge w/ lies
Too modest are you,
More cruel to your good report than grateful
To us that give you truly. By your patience,
If ’gainst yourself you be incensed, we’ll put you,
Like one that means his proper harm, in manacles,
Then reason safely with you. Therefore be it known,
As to us to all the world, that Caius Martius
Wears this war’s garland, in token of the which
My noble steed, known to the camp, I give him,
With all his trim belonging. And from this time,
For what he did before Corioles, call him,
With all th’ applause and clamour of the host,
Caius Martius Coriolanus! Bear
Th’ addition nobly ever!
You are too modest. Your refusal of praise harms your reputation more than it shows gratitude to us. If you're upset with yourself, we would have to chain you up just to reason with you calmly. Therefore, let it be known to us and the entire world that Caius Martius wears this victory garland in recognition of his achievement. My noble horse, well known in the camp, I give to him with all its equipment. For what he accomplished before Corioles, let him be called, with all the applause of the army, Caius Martius Coriolanus! Bear this title with honor forever!
You're being too humble. By refusing recognition, you're actually hurting your reputation more than helping us. If you keep being mad at yourself, we might have to lock you up just to have a normal conversation. So let this be clear, from us to the whole world: Caius Martius has earned victory as his reward. I'm giving him my personal horse—the one everyone in camp knows—along with all its gear. Because of what he did at Corioles, call him Caius Martius Coriolanus from now on! Wear that title with pride!
too modest. refusing praise hurts you worse. listen: you're caius martius coriolanus now. i give you my horse all gear. wear title proud
Caius Martius Coriolanus!
Caius Martius Coriolanus!
Caius Martius Coriolanus!
caius martius Coriolanus CORIOLANUS
I will go wash;
And when my face is fair, you shall perceive
Whether I blush or no. Howbeit, I thank you.
I mean to stride your steed and at all times
To undercrest your good addition
To th’ fairness of my power.
I will go wash. When my face is clean, you will see whether I blush or not. I thank you though. I mean to ride your horse, and at all times I will uphold the honor you have just given me as well as I am able.
I'm going to wash up. When my face is clean, you'll see if I blush about all this. But thanks anyway. I'll ride that horse, and I promise to live up to this title and honor in everything I do.
gonna wash. when i'm clean you'll see if i'm embarrassed. i'll ride your horse. i'll live up to this honor always
So, to our tent,
Where, ere we do repose us, we will write
To Rome of our success.—You, Titus Lartius,
Must to Corioles back. Send us to Rome
The best, with whom we may articulate
For their own good and ours.
So, let us go to our tent. Before we rest, we will write to Rome of our success. Titus Lartius, you must return to Corioles. Send us to Rome the best of the captives, with whom we can negotiate for their ransom and for Rome's advantage.
Let's get to the tent. We need to write to Rome about this. Titus, go back to Corioles. Send us the best prisoners so we can negotiate ransoms.
tent write rome success lartius back corioles best captives articulate their good ours
I shall, my lord.
I will, my lord.
I'll do it, sir.
i shall
The gods begin to mock me. I, that now
Refused most princely gifts, am bound to beg
Of my lord general.
The gods begin to mock me. I, who just refused the most generous gifts, am now forced to beg of you, my commander.
I feel like the gods are laughing at me. I just turned down treasure, and now I have to ask you for a favour.
gods mock me refused gifts now i beg my general
Take’t, ’tis yours. What is’t?
Take it. It's yours. What do you want?
Take it. It's all yours. What do you need?
take it yours what is it
I sometime lay here in Corioles
At a poor man’s house; he used me kindly.
He cried to me; I saw him prisoner;
But then Aufidius was within my view,
And wrath o’erwhelmed my pity. I request you
To give my poor host freedom.
I once stayed in Corioles at a poor man's house. He treated me with kindness. I saw him cry out when I was taken prisoner, but then Aufidius entered my view and my anger overwhelmed my pity. I ask you: grant this poor man his freedom.
There was this poor guy in Corioles who took me in. He was good to me. I saw him later in prison, crying, but Aufidius showed up and I got distracted by rage. Can you just let him go?
poor mans house kindly used me cried prisoner aufidius view wrath overwhelmed pity freedom him
O, well begged!
Were he the butcher of my son, he should
Be free as is the wind.—Deliver him, Titus.
Oh, beautifully asked! Even if he were the killer of my own son, he would go free like the wind. Release him, Titus.
That's well asked! Even if he killed my son, I'd let him go. Let him free, Titus.
well begged even butcher my son free as wind deliver him
Martius, his name?
What is his name, Martius?
What's his name?
his name martius
By Jupiter, forgot!
I am weary; yea, my memory is tired.
Have we no wine here?
By Jupiter, I forgot! I'm weary and my memory is exhausted. Do we have any wine?
God, I forgot his name! I'm so tired. Is there any wine?
forgot weary memory tired wine here
Go we to our tent.
The blood upon your visage dries; ’tis time
It should be looked to. Come.
Let's go to our tent. The blood on your face is drying; it needs attention. Come.
Let's get to the tent. Your wounds need looking after. Come on.
tent blood visage dries time looked come
The Reckoning
This is the scene where Martius becomes Coriolanus, and it's more complicated than it first appears. He refuses wealth (heroic), he refuses praise (heroic), he asks mercy for an enemy civilian (unexpectedly tender) — and then immediately forgets the man's name because Aufidius crossed his vision. The forgotten name is the scene's quiet knife: a moment of genuine human feeling, instantly consumed by the obsession that defines him.
If this happened today…
A CEO refuses the performance bonus and the naming rights to a new building after his biggest quarter. He says he just did his job. But then he asks one small favour: 'There's a developer who mentored me early on — can we get him a consulting contract?' His assistant asks for the name. He opens his mouth — and his phone lights up with a notification about the rival CEO. He stares at it. He cannot remember the developer's name. That's 1-9.