The augurer tells me we shall have news tonight.
The oracle tells me we'll get news tonight.
The fortune-teller says something's gonna happen tonight.
oracle says news coming tonight
Good or bad?
Good news or bad?
Good news or bad?
good or bad
Not according to the prayer of the people, for they love not Martius.
Not what the people would pray for — they despise Martius.
Not the kinda news the people are hoping for, seeing as they hate Martius.
people hate martius so they don't want the good news
Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.
Nature teaches animals to recognize who their allies are.
Animals just naturally know who their friends are.
animals know their friends naturally
Pray you, who does the wolf love?
Then tell me — who does the wolf befriend?
OK so who's the wolf's friend?
who does the wolf love
The lamb.
The lamb.
The lamb.
the lamb
Ay, to devour him, as the hungry plebeians would the noble Martius.
Yes—to devour it, just as the starving commoners would eagerly swallow up the noble Martius.
Yep—to eat it. And that's exactly what these hungry plebs would do to noble Martius if they got the chance.
wolf loves lamb so it can eat it like plebs would martius
He’s a lamb indeed, that baas like a bear.
He's a lamb indeed—one that bleats like a bear.
Oh sure, he's a lamb all right—a lamb that sounds like a bear.
lamb that roars like bear that's martius
He’s a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two are old men; tell
me one thing that I shall ask you.
He's a bear, all right—one who actually behaves like a lamb. Listen, you're both old men; let me ask you one thing.
Nah, he's a bear—acts like a lamb though. Look, you two are ancient. I'm gonna ask you something.
he's a bear who acts like lamb you old guys i'm gonna ask something
Well, sir.
Very well, sir.
Yeah, OK, go ahead.
ok what
In what enormity is Martius poor in, that you two have not in
abundance?
In what shameful weakness is Martius lacking that you two don't have in abundance?
So what's the one bad thing Martius is, that you guys don't also have way more of?
what fault doesn't martius have that you two don't have MORE of
He’s poor in no one fault, but stored with all.
He isn't lacking in any single fault—he's loaded with every one of them.
He's not missing any faults, man. He's got the whole menu.
he has every fault there is
Especially in pride.
Especially pride.
Pride especially.
pride mostly
And topping all others in boasting.
And he surpasses everyone else in boasting.
And he out-brags everybody.
and he brags more than everyone
This is strange now. Do you two know how you are censured here in the
city, I mean of us o’ th’ right-hand file, do you?
Now that's interesting. Do you know what people say about you two in the city—I mean, people like us patricians, do you?
That's wild. You guys know what people in the city say about you—like, respectable people, you know?
so do you know what people say about you two
Why, how are we censured?
Why, how are we judged?
So what do people say about us?
what do ppl say about us?
Because you talk of pride now, will you not be angry?
Well, since you just blamed him for being proud, won't you get angry?
Well, since you're about to hear that you're also full of pride, you're probably gonna lose it.
since you just called him proud you gonna get mad about what i say
Well, well, sir, well?
Well, we're listening, sir.
Yeah, go ahead, sir.
just tell us
Why, ’tis no great matter; for a very little thief of occasion will rob
you of a great deal of patience. Give your dispositions the reins, and
be angry at your pleasures, at the least, if you take it as a pleasure
to you in being so. You blame Martius for being proud.
Oh, it's no big deal. Just that the tiniest little excuse will rob you of your whole patience. Go ahead, lose your tempers if you like—especially if it pleases you to be angry. You blame Martius for being proud.
Eh, it's nothing—just that even the slightest thing pisses you guys off completely. Be angry if you want, if that makes you happy. But yeah, you're saying Martius is proud.
small thing makes you lose patience go be angry if you want you blame martius for pride
We do it not alone, sir.
We're not blaming him alone, sir.
We're not the only ones saying it.
not just us saying it
The long sparring match between Menenius and the two tribunes in the first half of 2-1 is one of Shakespeare's great comic sequences — and also one of his most revealing character moments. Menenius wins every exchange. His self-portrait (the moody, midnight-haunting, hot-wine-drinking patrician) is charming precisely because it's honest: he admits to everything they might accuse him of, and makes every admission funny. His portrait of the tribunes (bureaucrats who settle disputes by calling both parties knaves, while suffering from colic) is devastating precisely because it's specific. But the scene also shows us Menenius's limits: he can destroy the tribunes verbally, but they are plotting while he celebrates. His wit is real; so is his blindness. He's the most likeable character in the play, and almost entirely useless in preventing what's coming.
I know you can do very little alone, for your helps are many, or else
your actions would grow wondrous single. Your abilities are too
infantlike for doing much alone. You talk of pride. O that you could
turn your eyes toward the napes of your necks and make but an interior
survey of your good selves! O, that you could!
I know you can't do much of anything alone—you always need help, otherwise your actions would be nothing. You're too childish to accomplish anything on your own. You talk about pride. I wish you could turn your eyes to look at the back of your own necks and take stock of yourselves! I truly wish you could!
I know you guys can't do anything by yourselves—you always need backup, or else nothing would happen. You're like infants. You talk about pride. Man, I wish you could look at the back of your own necks and do a self-inventory! I really do wish that!
you can't do anything alone your abilities are like a baby's you talk about pride i wish you could see yourselves
What then, sir?
So what then, sir?
So what would we see?
so what
Why, then you should discover a brace of unmeriting, proud, violent,
testy magistrates, alias fools, as any in Rome.
Why, then you'd discover a pair of arrogant, obnoxious, belligerent, irritable magistrates—or, to call them by their proper name, fools, as worthless as any in Rome.
Then you'd see two stuck-up, obnoxious, angry, touchy judges—in other words, idiots, same as any fool in Rome.
you'd see yourselves proud violent testy magistrates basically idiots
Menenius, you are known well enough, too.
You're well known too, Menenius.
People know what you're about too, Menenius.
people know you too
I am known to be a humorous patrician and one that loves a cup of hot
wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in’t; said to be something
imperfect in favouring the first complaint, hasty and tinder-like upon
too trivial motion; one that converses more with the buttock of the
night than with the forehead of the morning. What I think I utter, and
spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two such wealsmen as you are—I
cannot call you Lycurguses—if the drink you give me touch my palate
adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I cannot say your Worships have
delivered the matter well when I find the ass in compound with the
major part of your syllables. And though I must be content to bear with
those that say you are reverend grave men, yet they lie deadly that
tell you have good faces. If you see this in the map of my microcosm,
follows it that I am known well enough too? What harm can your bisson
conspectuities glean out of this character, if I be known well enough,
too?
I'm known as a moody patrician—one who loves hot wine straight, no Tiber water to soften it. People say I'm a bit quick to take sides on the first complaint, I'm hasty and explosive over the smallest things. I spend more time up in the middle of the night than I do in the morning. Whatever I think, I say out loud, and I waste my anger in mere words. When I meet you two so-called wise men—and I can't call you Lycurguses like I'd want to—if the drink you serve me disagrees with me, I make a sour face at it. I can't say you gentlemen presented the argument well when I spot the ass mixed into most of your sentences. And though I have to listen to people call you respectable, serious men, they're lying when they say you have good faces. If you find yourself in this map of my character, does it follow that I'm not well known? What harm can your blind stares pick out of this portrait if I'm already well known, too?
I'm known as a grumpy aristocrat, right? I like my wine hot and straight—no water mixed in. People say I jump on the first complaint, I'm quick-tempered about nothing, and I spend way more time awake in the middle of the night than I do in the morning. Whatever's in my head comes out of my mouth, and I burn through my anger just talking. You two claim to be wise guys—I can't even call you proper statesmen—but if the wine you give me tastes bad, I'll make a face. When you're arguing something and there's an ass hiding in every other sentence, I'm gonna notice. Sure, people call you serious and respectable. They're lying about your faces, though. So if that's the map of who I am—if that's me laid out—then I'm already well known, right? What harm can your bleary-eyed looks pull out of this if I'm already well known?
i drink hot wine straight i'm quick tempered and speak my mind i say what i think i'm already well known so what can you see that's new
Come, sir, come; we know you well enough.
Come now, sir. We understand you well enough.
All right, sir. We get it. We know who you are.
we know you well enough
You know neither me, yourselves, nor anything. You are ambitious for
poor knaves’ caps and legs. You wear out a good wholesome forenoon in
hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a faucet-seller, and then
rejourn the controversy of threepence to a second day of audience. When
you are hearing a matter between party and party, if you chance to be
pinched with the colic, you make faces like mummers, set up the bloody
flag against all patience, and, in roaring for a chamber pot, dismiss
the controversy bleeding, the more entangled by your hearing. All the
peace you make in their cause is calling both the parties knaves. You
are a pair of strange ones.
You know nothing—not me, not yourselves, not anything. You're hungry for the hats and bows of common people. You waste your whole morning listening to disputes between a fruit-seller and a faucet-vendor, then you postpone the argument about threepence to another hearing. When you're judging a case between two parties and the colic hits you, you make faces like buffoons, you raise your bloody flag against all patience, and you bellow for a chamber pot and dismiss the whole case half-solved, all tangled up by your listening. All the peace you make in their cases comes down to calling both parties knaves. You two are a strange pair.
You don't know anything—not me, not yourselves, not a damn thing. You're after the respect of ordinary people. You blow a whole morning listening to some fruit seller arguing with a pipe-seller, then you put off the case about three cents to another day. You're hearing a case between two people, the colic hits you, you make faces like clowns, you practically riot for a chamber pot, and the case gets thrown out half-solved because you screwed it up with your judging. Every time you settle something, you just call both sides thieves. You're a weird pair.
you want commoners' respect you blow mornings on fruit sellers you can't sit without a chamber pot you make peace by calling everyone thieves
Come, come. You are well understood to be a perfecter giber for the
table than a necessary bencher in the Capitol.
Look, you're known as a much better table talker than you are a serious judge in the Senate.
Yeah, you're good at talking funny at dinner parties—that's more your speed than actually being a senator.
you're better at jokes at dinner than actually judging
Our very priests must become mockers if they shall encounter such
ridiculous subjects as you are. When you speak best unto the purpose,
it is not worth the wagging of your beards, and your beards deserve not
so honourable a grave as to stuff a botcher’s cushion or to be entombed
in an ass’s packsaddle. Yet you must be saying Martius is proud, who,
in a cheap estimation, is worth all your predecessors since Deucalion,
though peradventure some of the best of ’em were hereditary hangmen.
Good e’en to your Worships. More of your conversation would infect my
brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians. I will be bold to
take my leave of you.
Even priests would have to mock if they met people like you. When you talk best, it's not worth the wagging of your beards, and your beards deserve no better grave than to be stuffed into a shoemaker's cushion or buried in a donkey's saddlebag. And yet you keep saying Martius is proud—this same Martius who, by any fair reckoning, is worth all your ancestors since the flood, even though maybe some of them were professional executioners. Good day to you, sirs. Any more conversation with you would poison my brain—you who tend the brutish commoners like shepherds. I'll take my leave.
Even holy men would turn into comedians if they had to deal with people like you. Your best speech isn't worth one of your beard hairs, and your beards belong in a cobbler's seat cushion or a donkey's pack, not anywhere respectable. But you keep calling Martius proud? The guy who's worth all your whole family line since day one, maybe except for the executioners among them? Goodbye, sirs. One more minute talking to you and my brain rots—you people who herd the plebs like animals. I'm out of here.
your beards aren't worth anything they belong in a cushion but you call martius proud he's worth all your ancestors goodbye you herd plebs like animals
How now, my as fair as noble ladies—and the moon, were she earthly, no
nobler—whither do you follow your eyes so fast?
What is it, my ladies—as fair and noble as they come—and if the moon were human, it would be no more noble than you—where are you hurrying to look?
Hey, you beautiful and noble ladies—seriously, if the moon could walk, it wouldn't be any more impressive than you—where are you rushing off to?
hey noble ladies, moon can't compete w/ u—where u rushing?
Honourable Menenius, my boy Martius approaches. For the love of Juno,
let’s go!
Menenius, my boy Martius is coming. For the love of Juno, let's go!
Menenius, my boy is coming! Come on, let's go, let's go!
martius is coming let's go now
Ha? Martius coming home?
Martius is returning?
Wait, he's coming back?
martius is back??
Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous approbation.
Yes, worthy Menenius, and with the greatest success.
Yes, he is, and he's coming in with total victory.
yes and he's victorious
Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee! Hoo! Martius coming home?
God take my crown, and I thank you! Wow! Martius coming home?
Thank you, Jupiter! Praise the gods! Martius is coming home?
thank god martius coming home
Nay, ’tis true.
It's true.
It's really true.
it's true
Look, here’s a letter from him. The state hath another, his wife
another, and I think there’s one at home for you.
Look, here's a letter from him. The government has another, his wife has another, and I think there's one waiting for you at home.
Look—I've got a letter from him. The Senate's got one, his wife's got one, and there's one waiting for you at your place.
here's his letter senate has one his wife has one one for you at home
I will make my very house reel tonight. A letter for me?
I'll make my whole house shake tonight. A letter for me?
My whole house is gonna rock tonight. A letter for me?
my house will rock tonight letter for me
Yes, certain, there’s a letter for you; I saw it.
Yes, certainly. There's a letter for you; I saw it myself.
Yeah, definitely. There's a letter for you at home—I saw it.
yes for sure. there's a letter for you
A letter for me? It gives me an estate of seven years’ health, in which
time I will make a lip at the physician. The most sovereign
prescription in Galen is but empiricutic and, to this preservative, of
no better report than a horse drench. Is he not wounded? He was wont to
come home wounded.
A letter for me? It's giving me seven years of perfect health—in which time I'll give the doctor the finger. The greatest medical cure in Galen's whole works is just quack medicine compared to this happiness. Nothing works better. Is he wounded? He usually comes home wounded.
A letter for me? That's like seven years of perfect health. During that time I'll laugh at doctors. Every cure in every medical book is nothing compared to this. Is he hurt? He usually comes home all cut up.
seven years of health i'll laugh at doctors galen's cures are nothing is he wounded
O, no, no, no!
Oh, definitely not, not, not!
No way, no way, no way!
nope nope nope
The return of Coriolanus in 2-1 is one of Shakespeare's most carefully layered pieces of theatre. We watch three reactions simultaneously: Volumnia (radiant, triumphant, already calculating the political advantages of his wounds), Virgilia (silent, weeping, completely present), and Menenius (tearful and laughing at once, the authentic overflow of a man who genuinely loves). Coriolanus has to navigate all three while the whole city watches. His greeting to his mother — kneeling, briefly — is the only time he bows to anyone in the play. His greeting to Virgilia — 'my gracious silence' — is the only time he speaks with pure tenderness. And then the procession moves on. The private moment passes in seconds. This is how the play handles intimacy: it exists, it matters, and it disappears into the demands of public life almost immediately.
O, he is wounded, I thank the gods for’t.
Yes, he is wounded. Thank God for it.
Yes, he is—and thank the gods for that.
yes he's wounded thank god
So do I too, if it be not too much. Brings he victory in his pocket,
the wounds become him.
I'm grateful too—if it's not too much. If he brings victory with him, his wounds make him look good.
Me too, as long as it's not too bad. Victory plus wounds? That's a winning look.
me too if it's not bad victory + wounds that's perfect
On’s brows, Menenius. He comes the third time home with the oaken
garland.
On his forehead, Menenius. He's coming home for the third time now wearing the oak-leaf crown.
On his face, Menenius. This is the third time he's coming home with the oak crown.
third time with oak crown on his face
Has he disciplined Aufidius soundly?
Has he thoroughly beaten Aufidius?
So did he whip Aufidius good?
beat aufidius
Titus Lartius writes they fought together, but Aufidius got off.
Titus Lartius writes that they fought each other, but Aufidius managed to escape.
Lartius says they fought head-to-head, but Aufidius got away.
lartius says they fought aufidius escaped
And ’twas time for him too, I’ll warrant him that. An he had stayed by
him, I would not have been so ’fidiused for all the chests in Corioles
and the gold that’s in them. Is the Senate possessed of this?
And it's good timing—he needed to escape. If he'd stayed and faced Martius, I wouldn't have wanted to be in Aufidius's position for all the treasure in Corioles. Has the Senate heard about this?
Good call on his part. If he'd stuck around, I wouldn't trade places with him for all the gold in the city. The Senate know about this yet?
good he ran if he'd stayed martius would've destroyed him senate know
Good ladies, let’s go.—Yes, yes, yes. The Senate has letters from the
General, wherein he gives my son the whole name of the war. He hath in
this action outdone his former deeds doubly.
Come, ladies, let's go. Yes, yes, yes. The Senate has letters from the General describing the whole campaign. My son's achievement has surpassed his previous victories by two times over.
Come on, let's move, ladies. Yeah, the Senate has letters from the commander-in-chief giving all the credit to my son. He's outdone himself—twice over.
let's go senate has letters my son did twice as much as he did before
In troth, there’s wondrous things spoke of him.
Truly, people are saying remarkable things about him.
Really, the rumors about him are incredible.
people saying amazing things
Wondrous? Ay, I warrant you, and not without his true purchasing.
Wondrous, yes—I can promise you that—and not without reason.
Absolutely wondrous—I swear—and all of it earned fair and square.
wondrous and deserved
The gods grant them true.
May the gods grant it's all true.
I hope it's all true.
gods let it be true
True? Pow, waw!
True? Pooh, nonsense!
True? Come on!
true pff
True? I’ll be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded? [_To the
Tribunes_.] God save your good Worships! Martius is coming home; he has
more cause to be proud.—Where is he wounded?
I swear on my honor they're true. Where is he wounded? [Turning to the Tribunes.] God keep you gentlemen safe! Martius is coming home; he has every reason to be proud. Where is he wounded?
I swear they're true. Where's he hurt? [To the Tribunes.] May the gods preserve you! Martius is coming home, and he's earned the right to be proud. Where's he wounded?
i swear it's true god keep you tribunes martius coming where's he wounded
I’ th’ shoulder and i’ th’ left arm. There will be large cicatrices to
show the people when he shall stand for his place. He received in the
repulse of Tarquin seven hurts i’ th’ body.
In his shoulder and his left arm. He'll have big scars to show the people when he runs for office. He received seven wounds on his body when he fought Tarquin.
Shoulder and left arm. Those scars will look great when he campaigns for consul. He got seven hits on his body fighting Tarquin before this.
shoulder and left arm big scars for campaign seven wounds from tarquin
One i’ th’ neck and two i’ th’ thigh—there’s nine that I know.
One in the neck and two in the thigh—that's nine I know about.
One in the neck, two in the thigh—that makes nine I count.
neck and thigh that's nine
He had, before this last expedition, twenty-five wounds upon him.
Before this last campaign, he had twenty-five wounds.
Before this war, he already had twenty-five.
he had twenty five before
Now it’s twenty-seven. Every gash was an enemy’s grave.
So that makes twenty-seven now. Every single scar was some enemy's grave.
So that's twenty-seven. Each scar is like a gravestone.
twenty seven now each scar a grave
Hark, the trumpets!
Listen, the trumpets!
Do you hear that? The trumpets!
hear the trumpets!
These are the ushers of Martius: before him he carries noise, and
behind him he leaves tears.
Death, that dark spirit, in’s nervy arm doth lie,
Which, being advanced, declines, and then men die.
Martius brings noise ahead of him, and leaves tears behind him. Death—that dark spirit—lives in his powerful arm. When he raises it, men fall, and then they die.
He brings noise in front of him and tears behind him. Death itself lives in his muscular arm. He raises it, and people fall. That's it. They die.
noise ahead tears behind death in his arm he raises it people die
crowned with an oaken garland, with Captains and Soldiers and a Herald.
wearing an oak-leaf crown, accompanied by Captains, Soldiers, and a Herald
wearing an oak wreath, with Captains and Soldiers and a Herald
oak crown w/ captains, soldiers, herald
It's tempting to read Brutus and Sicinius as the play's villains — they scheme, they plot, they 'goad' the people like dogs set on sheep. But Shakespeare is more careful than that. Everything the tribunes say about Coriolanus is demonstrably true: he has held the people in contempt, he would strip their freedoms if he could, his pride will make him an impossible consul. Their plan is cynical, but it is based on accurate observation. They are not fabricating a threat — they are using a real one. The deeper irony is that by removing Coriolanus from Rome, they don't make Rome safer: they make Coriolanus more dangerous. He becomes Aufidius's instrument against the city that exiled him. The tribunes were right about the problem and disastrously wrong about the solution. This is the play's most sophisticated political argument: correct diagnosis, catastrophic treatment.
Know, Rome, that all alone Martius did fight
Within Corioles’ gates, where he hath won,
With fame, a name to Caius Martius; these
In honour follows “Coriolanus.”
Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus.
Hear it, Rome: Martius alone fought within Corioles' gates. There, through his glorious deeds, he won the honor-title Coriolanus. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus.
Attention, Rome. Martius fought by himself inside Corioles' walls and through his glory earned the title Coriolanus. Welcome to Rome, Coriolanus.
martius fought alone at corioles gates. earned the title coriolanus. welcome coriolanus
Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!
Coriolanus, Rome receives you with honor!
Welcome back to Rome, Coriolanus! You're a legend!
we celebrate you coriolanus
No more of this, it does offend my heart.
Pray now, no more.
No more of this. It offends my heart. Please, no more.
Stop. This is making me sick. Please stop.
stop this offends me no more
Look, sir, your mother.
Look, sir. Your mother is here.
Look. Your mother is right there.
look, your mom's here
O,
You have, I know, petitioned all the gods
For my prosperity.
O, I know you've prayed to every god for my good fortune.
You've prayed to every god for me.
you prayed to all gods for me
Nay, my good soldier, up.
No, my good soldier, get up.
No, my good warrior, stand up.
no stand up
My gentle Martius, worthy Caius, and
By deed-achieving honour newly named—
What is it? Coriolanus must I call thee?
But, O, thy wife—
My gentle Martius, worthy Caius, newly named through honor earned by your deeds—what is it? Must I call you Coriolanus? But, O, your wife—
My gentle Martius, worthy Caius—newly named through all the honor you've earned in battle. What is it? Must I call you Coriolanus now? But, O, your wife—
gentle martius, worthy caius, named for ur deeds—call u coriolanus? but ur wife—
My gracious silence, hail.
Wouldst thou have laughed had I come coffined home,
That weep’st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear,
Such eyes the widows in Corioles wear
And mothers that lack sons.
My gracious and silent one, hello. Would you have laughed if I'd come home in a coffin, that you weep to see me triumphant? Oh my love, the widows in Corioles wear eyes like yours now—and mothers who have lost their sons.
My beautiful quiet wife. Would you be laughing if I came home dead, instead of crying at my victory? My dear, the widows in Corioles have your eyes right now—and mothers whose kids got killed.
gracious silence hello would you laugh if i died but you cry i won volscian widows have your eyes now mothers with no sons
Now the gods crown thee!
Now may the gods crown you!
May the gods bless you!
gods crown you
And live you yet? [_To Valeria_] O my sweet lady, pardon.
You're still here! O sweet lady, forgive me.
You're still around! Oh lady, sorry—I didn't see you.
you're here too sorry lady
I know not where to turn. O, welcome home!
And welcome, general.—And you’re welcome all.
I don't know what to do with myself. Welcome, my son! And welcome, general. And all of you, welcome.
I don't know what to do with myself. Welcome home! Welcome, general! Welcome, everyone!
i don't know what to do welcome all
A hundred thousand welcomes! I could weep,
And I could laugh; I am light and heavy. Welcome.
A curse begin at very root on’s heart
That is not glad to see thee! You are three
That Rome should dote on; yet, by the faith of men,
We have some old crab trees here at home that will not
Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors!
We call a nettle but a nettle, and
The faults of fools but folly.
A hundred thousand welcomes! I could cry and I could laugh at once. I'm light and heavy both. Welcome. May a curse strike at the root of the heart of anyone who isn't glad to see you! You three are what Rome should cherish—but, honestly, we have some bitter crab-apple trees here at home that can't be improved by grafting to your taste. Still, welcome, warriors! We call a weed a weed, and call foolish deeds exactly what they are: foolish.
A hundred thousand welcomes! I could laugh and cry at the same time. I'm flying and drowning at once. Welcome. A curse on anybody's heart that's not happy to see you! You three are Rome's treasure—but the truth is, we've got some sour apple trees here that nothing can improve. Anyway, welcome, warriors! We don't sugarcoat things: a weed's a weed, and stupid is stupid.
hundred thousand welcomes i could cry and laugh welcome curse anyone not glad rome should love you but we have bitter roots that can't be changed
Ever right.
Always right, Menenius.
You're always right.
right as always
Menenius ever, ever.
Menenius—always, always.
Menenius—always you.
menenius always
Give way there, and go on!
Make way there, and move along!
Clear the way! Let's go!
clear the way move on
[_To Volumnia and Virgilia_.] Your hand, and yours.
Ere in our own house I do shade my head,
The good patricians must be visited,
From whom I have received not only greetings,
But with them change of honours.
Your hand, and yours. Before I rest in our own house, I must visit the good patricians, from whom I have received not only greetings but also increased honors.
Let me take your hand, and yours. Before I can go home and rest, I need to visit the noble patricians who have not only welcomed me but also given me greater honors.
give me your hands i must visit the patricians first they gave me greetings and honors before i go home
I have lived
To see inherited my very wishes
And the buildings of my fancy. Only
There’s one thing wanting, which I doubt not but
Our Rome will cast upon thee.
I've lived to see everything I ever wished come true, and all my dreams built into reality. There's just one thing left missing—which I'm sure Rome will give you.
I've seen all my wishes come true and my dreams become real. There's just one last thing—Rome's going to give it to you.
all my wishes came true my dreams are real one thing left rome will give it
Know, good mother,
I had rather be their servant in my way
Than sway with them in theirs.
Listen, good mother, I would rather serve Rome in my own way than rule over it in Rome's way.
Mom, I'd rather serve Rome on my own terms than rule Rome on their terms.
mother i'd rather serve on my terms than rule on theirs
Volumnia and Menenius count Coriolanus's wounds with the systematic pleasure of accountants: seven from Tarquin, one in the neck, two in the thigh, two new ones today — twenty-seven in total. Each wound is simultaneously a mark of service and a political asset: Roman consular candidates literally showed their wounds to the people to demonstrate their sacrifice. The body becomes a campaign document. What makes this so strange — and so central to the play — is that Coriolanus himself refuses to use his wounds this way. He will not show them. He will not perform the ritual. He has the receipts and won't produce them. Volumnia counts them with delight because she understands their political value. Coriolanus refuses to display them because he regards using wounds to ask for approval as a form of prostitution. The same scars mean completely different things to mother and son — and that difference will cost him his consulship.
On, to the Capitol.
Let's proceed to the Capitol.
Let's head to the Capitol.
capitol time
Brutus and Sicinius come forward.
Brutus and Sicinius step forward.
Here come Brutus and Sicinius.
brutus & sicinius show up
All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights
Are spectacled to see him. Your prattling nurse
Into a rapture lets her baby cry
While she chats him. The kitchen malkin pins
Her richest lockram ’bout her reechy neck,
Clamb’ring the walls to eye him. Stalls, bulks, windows
Are smothered up, leads filled, and ridges horsed
With variable complexions, all agreeing
In earnestness to see him. Seld-shown flamens
Do press among the popular throngs and puff
To win a vulgar station. Our veiled dames
Commit the war of white and damask in
Their nicely-gauded cheeks to th’ wanton spoil
Of Phoebus’ burning kisses. Such a pother,
As if that whatsoever god who leads him
Were slyly crept into his human powers
And gave him graceful posture.
Everyone talks about him, and people with poor eyesight have been given spectacles just to see him. Nurses abandon their lullabies to gossip about him to their babies. Kitchen servants tie their best scarves around their filthy necks and climb the walls to catch a glimpse. Every window, every balcony, every rooftop is packed, every square inch covered, all with different kinds of faces, but all agreeing on one thing: they're desperate to see him. Even the priests—usually reserved—push through the crowds and puff themselves up trying to get a good vantage point among the common people. Our high-born ladies give up their veils and let their carefully painted faces—white and rosy—get burnt by the sun. It's like some god has crawled into his body and given him perfect movements.
Everyone's talking about him. Blind people are getting glasses just to look at him. Nannies have stopped singing to their kids and won't shut up about him. The kitchen staff have their best cloth tied around their dirty necks climbing walls to see him. Every window, every platform, every roof—stuffed. All different kinds of people, all crazy to see him. Priests who usually stay separate? Pushing through crowds trying to get spots with regular people. Our fancy ladies took off their face-covering and let the sun ruin their pale perfect complexions. It's like a god got inside him and taught him how to move.
everyone talks about him blind people getting glasses nurses can't stop kitchen staff climbing walls every window packed ladies ruining their faces in sun like a god moved through him
On the sudden
I warrant him consul.
I guarantee you he'll be made consul any moment now.
I'm betting he's consul by tonight.
he'll be consul soon
Then our office may,
During his power, go sleep.
If that happens, our office will be dead weight during his time in power.
When he is, our jobs are basically over.
when he's consul our power dies
He cannot temp’rately transport his honours
From where he should begin and end, but will
Lose those he hath won.
He can't keep his honors within bounds—he won't know where to start and where to stop, and in the end he'll lose everything he's won.
He can't stay moderate. He won't know where to begin or where to end, so he'll blow it all away.
he can't stay moderate he'll lose everything
In that there’s comfort.
In that there's hope.
That works for us.
that's good for us
Doubt not the commoners, for whom we stand,
But they, upon their ancient malice will forget
With the least cause these his new honours—which
That he will give them make as little question
As he is proud to do’t.
Don't doubt the common people—those we represent. They'll forget their old grudges against him the moment new proof of his pride gives them reason to. And he'll give them that reason—he's too proud not to.
The people we speak for won't stick with him. They'll forget they loved him the second he gives them a reason to hate him. And he will—he's too arrogant not to.
people will forget he gave them reason to hate him he's too proud not to
I heard him swear,
Were he to stand for consul, never would he
Appear i’ th’ marketplace nor on him put
The napless vesture of humility,
Nor showing, as the manner is, his wounds
To th’ people, beg their stinking breaths.
I heard him swear that if he ran for consul, he would never appear in the marketplace, never put on a humble robe, never show his wounds to the people and beg for their approval.
He said—I heard him say it—that if he ran for consul, he wouldn't go to the marketplace, wouldn't wear humble clothes, wouldn't show his scars and ask the people to support him.
he swore he wouldn't go to marketplace wear humble robe show wounds and beg
’Tis right.
That's true.
That's right.
yep
It was his word. O, he would miss it rather
Than carry it but by the suit of the gentry to him
And the desire of the nobles.
That's what he said. He'd rather lose the consul position than pursue it through begging to the common people—he'd rather have it only through the support of the nobles and gentlemen.
He said he'd rather not be consul than beg for it from the mob—he only wants it if the aristocrats give it to him.
he'd rather lose it than beg the people only wants it from nobles
I wish no better
Than have him hold that purpose and to put it
In execution.
I couldn't ask for more than to see him hold to that plan and actually carry it out.
I hope he sticks to that plan and actually goes through with it.
i hope he does it
’Tis most like he will.
It's very likely he will.
Yeah, he probably will.
he probably will
It shall be to him then, as our good wills,
A sure destruction.
Then it will be his ruin for sure.
Then he's done.
then he's finished
So it must fall out
To him, or our authorities for an end.
We must suggest the people in what hatred
He still hath held them; that to’s power he would
Have made them mules, silenced their pleaders, and
Dispropertied their freedoms; holding them
In human action and capacity
Of no more soul nor fitness for the world
Than camels in their war, who have their provand
Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows
For sinking under them.
It has to work out that way for him, or we lose everything. We need to remind the people how much he despises them—remind them that if he had his way, he'd make them slaves, silence their advocates in court, strip them of their property. He sees them as less than human, fit only for bearing burdens and taking beatings.
It's either him or us. We need to tell the people what he really thinks of them—that if he could, he'd turn them into pack animals, shut up their lawyers, take away their rights. To him, they're less than people. They're just beasts that carry stuff and get whipped.
it's him or us remind people he despises them would make them slaves beasts of burden
This, as you say, suggested
At some time when his soaring insolence
Shall touch the people—which time shall not want
If it be put upon’t, and that’s as easy
As to set dogs on sheep—will be his fire
To kindle their dry stubble, and their blaze
Shall darken him for ever.
Once we've planted that in their minds, the moment his arrogance touches them—and that moment will come, we'll make sure of it; it'll be as easy as setting dogs on sheep—his own pride will be the fire that lights their anger. Their rage will consume and ruin him forever.
Once we tell them that, the second he gets arrogant around them—and he will, we'll make sure of it; it's like letting a dog loose on sheep—his own pride becomes the spark. They'll burn him down for good.
tell them he despises them wait for him to get arrogant it's like dogs on sheep his pride becomes the spark they'll burn him forever
What’s the matter?
What's going on?
What is it?
what
You are sent for to the Capitol. ’Tis thought
That Martius shall be consul. I have seen
The dumb men throng to see him, and the blind
to hear him speak; matrons flung gloves,
Ladies and maids their scarves and handkerchiefs,
Upon him as he passed; the nobles bended
As to Jove’s statue, and the Commons made
A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts.
I never saw the like.
You're being called to the Capitol. It's believed that Martius will be made consul. I've seen people who can't hear come to listen to him speak, blind people come to see him. Women threw their gloves at him as he passed, ladies threw their scarves and handkerchiefs. The nobles bowed as if to a god, and the ordinary people cheered so loudly with their caps and shouts that it sounded like thunder. I've never seen anything like it.
You're wanted at the Capitol. Everyone thinks Martius will be consul. I saw deaf people just wanting to hear him, blind people trying to see him. Women were throwing their gloves, ladies throwing scarves and handkerchiefs. The nobles were bowing like he's a god, and the people were screaming and throwing their hats so loud it sounded like a storm. Never seen it before.
you're called to capitol martius will be consul deaf people come hear him blind come see him women throwing gloves nobles bowing like god people screaming like thunder
Let’s to the Capitol;
And carry with us ears and eyes for th’ time,
But hearts for the event.
Let's go to the Capitol. We'll keep our eyes and ears open while we're there, but we'll keep our hearts focused on what happens next.
Let's head to the Capitol. We'll watch and listen, but we'll keep our heads about what comes next.
go to capitol watch and listen keep our hearts ready for what comes
Have with you.
Let's go.
Let's go.
let's go
The Reckoning
Scene 2-1 is the play's most crowded scene emotionally: wit-combat, homecoming, reunion, and conspiracy all compressed into one long sweep of stage action. Coriolanus's three words to his weeping wife — 'My gracious silence' — are more tender than anything else he says in the play. The tribunes watch it all, wait until everyone has gone, and begin their work. The audience leaves feeling the warmth of the return and the chill of what comes next.
If this happened today…
A decorated military officer comes home from war — parade, medal ceremony, reporters, the whole thing. His mother practically vibrates with pride. His wife just holds him and cries. His commanding officer gives a speech. And then, once the family has gone inside, two political opponents who've been waiting outside camera range take out their phones and start making calls: 'He's going to run for Senate. We need to make sure the announcement goes wrong.' That's 2-1.