Come, leave your tears. A brief farewell. The beast
With many heads butts me away. Nay, mother,
Where is your ancient courage? You were used
To say extremities was the trier of spirits;
That common chances common men could bear;
That when the sea was calm, all boats alike
Showed mastership in floating; fortune’s blows
When most struck home, being gentle wounded craves
A noble cunning. You were used to load me
With precepts that would make invincible
The heart that conned them.
Come, stop your crying. A quick goodbye. The crowd with all its voices pushes me away. No, mother, where is your old strength? You used to say that extreme situations test the spirit; that ordinary problems ordinary people can handle; that when the sea is calm, every ship looks equally skillful at floating; but when fortune strikes hardest, a gentle wound requires noble wisdom. You used to load me with lessons that would make the heart that learned them unconquerable.
Come on, stop crying. I'm saying goodbye. This mob is driving me out. Mother, where's your strength? You always said hard times test what you're made of, that average people handle average problems, that any ship can sail when the water's smooth, but when life hits hard, you need real skill and nobility to handle it with grace. You taught me lessons that were supposed to make me unbeatable.
stop crying i'm leaving this mob drove me out mom where's your strength hard times test your soul you taught me i should be unbeatable
The central tension of this farewell scene is that Coriolanus is deploying Volumnia's own teachings against her distress — and it doesn't fully work. He calls up the maxim that 'extremity is the trier of spirits,' reminds her of the Hercules-wife joke, tells her that weeping over the inevitable is as foolish as laughing at it. He is giving her the Roman stoic catechism she put in him. But Volumnia is cracking — her famous composure, the composure she used to watch him go to war and bleed and come home scarred, is failing. Shakespeare is showing us something crucial: there's a difference between the philosophy of courage and its application, and the son has out-hardened the mother who made him hard. She can't take her own medicine.
O heavens! O heavens!
Oh the heavens! Oh the heavens!
Oh my God! Oh my God!
oh god no
Nay, I prithee, woman—
No, I ask you, woman—
No, please, woman—
come on—
Now the red pestilence strike all trades in Rome,
And occupations perish!
May the red plague strike down all the trades in Rome and ruin all occupations!
May the plague wipe out every trade in Rome and destroy all work!
plague wipe out rome destroy everything
Virgilia speaks exactly twice in this scene: 'O heavens! O heavens!' and 'O the gods!' That's it. Her husband is being banished, and she produces eight syllables. In an earlier scene (1-3), Volumnia explicitly criticized Virgilia for her softness — for being the kind of woman who couldn't watch her husband bleed with pride. Here, that contrast lands with full weight: Volumnia tries to perform the hardness she preached; Virgilia simply feels what she feels and cannot speak. There's an argument that Virgilia's silence is the most honest response in the scene. Everyone else is managing — Coriolanus manages, Menenius manages, even Volumnia manages, imperfectly. Virgilia just grieves. Shakespeare gives her almost nothing to say, and makes it the most human moment.
What, what, what!
I shall be loved when I am lacked. Nay, mother,
Resume that spirit when you were wont to say
If you had been the wife of Hercules,
Six of his labours you’d have done and saved
Your husband so much sweat.—Cominius,
Droop not. Adieu.—Farewell, my wife, my mother.
I’ll do well yet.—Thou old and true Menenius,
Thy tears are salter than a younger man’s
And venomous to thine eyes.—My sometime general,
I have seen thee stern, and thou hast oft beheld
Heart-hard’ning spectacles. Tell these sad women
’Tis fond to wail inevitable strokes
As ’tis to laugh at ’em.—My mother, you wot well
My hazards still have been your solace, and—
Believe’t not lightly—though I go alone,
Like to a lonely dragon that his fen
Makes feared and talked of more than seen, your son
Will or exceed the common or be caught
With cautelous baits and practice.
What, what, what! I will be valued when I am missed. No, mother, bring back that spirit when you used to say if you had been Hercules' wife, you would have done and finished six of his labors and saved your husband so much work. Cominius, don't despair. Goodbye. Farewell, my wife, my mother. I will do well yet. You old and faithful Menenius, your tears are more bitter than a younger man's and harmful to your eyes. My former commander, I have seen you stern and you have often watched heartbreaking sights. Tell these grieving women it is foolish to weep over unavoidable strokes of fate, just as it is foolish to laugh at them. My mother, you know well my dangers have always been your comfort, and believe me though I go alone, like a lonely dragon whose swamp makes him feared and talked about more than seen, your son will either exceed ordinary success or be caught by careful traps and schemes.
What, what, what! People will value me once I'm gone. No, mother, remember that spirit of yours—you used to say if you'd been married to Hercules, you could've done six of his twelve labors for him and saved him all that work. Cominius, don't fall apart. Goodbye. See you, my wife, my mother. I'll be fine. You old faithful Menenius, your tears are more painful than a young man's—they're burning your eyes. My former general, I've seen you face terrible things. Tell these sad women it's ridiculous to cry over things that can't be changed, as ridiculous as laughing at them. Mother, you know my dangers have always comforted you somehow, and believe me—even though I go alone, like a dragon in the swamp everyone's scared of but nobody sees, your son will either do amazing things or get caught in some trap.
people miss me when i'm gone mom remember your strength if you were hercules's wife you'd do his work for him i'll be fine i'm going alone like a dragon everyone fears i'll succeed or get trapped
My first son,
Whither wilt thou go? Take good Cominius
With thee awhile. Determine on some course
More than a wild exposture to each chance
That starts i’ th’ way before thee.
My firstborn son, where are you going? Take good Cominius with you for a while. Decide on some plan other than just being exposed to every risk that appears in front of you.
My oldest son, where are you headed? Take Cominius with you for a bit. Come up with a real plan instead of just throwing yourself at every danger that comes your way.
where you going take cominius make a plan don't just risk everything
O the gods!
Oh God!
Oh no!
oh god
The image Coriolanus chooses for himself as he walks into exile is revealing: 'like a lonely dragon that his fen / Makes feared and talked of more than seen.' Not a general, not a soldier — a monster in a swamp. Dangerous, solitary, more myth than man. This is the psychic move he's making in real time: converting humiliation into mystique. If Rome has driven him out, he'll be more frightening outside the walls than inside them. The dragon in his fen is the opposite of the consul at the podium — it's power without civic accountability. And it anticipates exactly what he becomes in the next two acts: a force of nature moving toward Rome with Aufidius's army, feared and talked of, barely seen.
I’ll follow thee a month, devise with thee
Where thou shalt rest, that thou mayst hear of us
And we of thee; so if the time thrust forth
A cause for thy repeal, we shall not send
O’er the vast world to seek a single man
And lose advantage, which doth ever cool
I’ th’ absence of the needer.
I'll follow you for a month and plan with you where you can rest so you can hear news from us and we from you; so if time brings a reason for your return, we won't have to search the whole world for one man and lose the advantage, which always gets weaker when the person who needs it is absent.
I'll go with you for a month and figure out where you can stay so we can keep in touch—you send news back to us and we'll send it to you. If there's ever a reason to bring you home, we won't waste time searching the whole world for just one guy and lose our chance, which happens every time we're separated from the person we need.
i'll go with you a month figure out where you can stay let's keep in touch if you can come back we'll know
Fare ye well.
Thou hast years upon thee, and thou art too full
Of the wars’ surfeits to go rove with one
That’s yet unbruised. Bring me but out at gate.—
Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and
My friends of noble touch. When I am forth,
Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you, come.
While I remain above the ground, you shall
Hear from me still, and never of me aught
But what is like me formerly.
Goodbye. You have years on you and you're too worn out from wars to travel with someone who's not yet scarred by battle. Just come with me to the gate. Come, my dear wife, my beloved mother, and my friends of noble character. When I'm gone, say goodbye to me and smile. I ask you, come. While I'm still living, you'll hear from me always, and never anything from me but what matches who I've always been.
Goodbye. You're too old and you've been through too many wars to go roaming around with a guy who hasn't been battle-scarred yet. Just walk me to the gate. Come on, my sweet wife, my dear mother, and my noble friends. When I leave, tell me goodbye and smile. Please come. As long as I'm alive, you'll hear from me, and you'll only hear things that sound like the real me.
bye you're too worn out from war just walk me to the gate come say goodbye and smile i'll write i'll be the same person
That’s worthily
As any ear can hear. Come, let’s not weep.
If I could shake off but one seven years
From these old arms and legs, by the good gods,
I’d with thee every foot.
That's spoken as well as any ears can hear. Come, let's not cry. If I could just take away seven years from these old arms and legs, I swear I would go with you on every step of the way.
That's as good as it gets. Come on, let's not cry. If I could just shed seven years off these old bones, I'd go with you every single mile.
well said let's not cry if i was young i'd go with you
Give me thy hand.
Come.
Give me your hand. Come.
Give me your hand. Let's go.
your hand let's go
The Reckoning
This is the emotional counter-weight to all the fury of Act 3. Coriolanus, who could not bend to Rome's citizens, here tries to shore up his family with the same precepts his mother once poured into him — and it half-works, half-doesn't. Volumnia is cracking, Virgilia is openly weeping, and even Menenius's old eyes are running. He walks away from everything he has ever known, and the last image is his hand in Menenius's — before the gate closes.
If this happened today…
A decorated military officer, just fired under political pressure, walks out of the Pentagon with his wife, his mother, two generals, and his old mentor. He's trying to stay composed — actually quoting the tough-love advice his mother gave him growing up. She's barely holding it together. His wife is crying. One of the generals says he'd come with him if he were twenty years younger. They walk him to the parking lot. He gets in his car and drives away alone.