At thy choice, then: To beg of thee, it is my more dishonor, Than thou of them. Come all to ruin: let Thy mother rather feel thy pride, than fear Thy dangerous stoutness: for I mock at death With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list-- Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck'dst it from me But owe thy pride thyself. CORIOLANUS. Pray be content; Mother, I am going to the market place-- Chide me no more. When the spirit of the mother and the son are brought into immediate collision, he yields before her; the warrior who stemmed alone the whole city of Corioli, who was ready to face "the steep Tarpeian death, or at wild horses' heels,--vagabond exile--flaying," rather than abate one jot of his proud will--shrinks at her rebuke. The haughty, fiery, overbearing temperament of Coriolanus, is drawn in such forcible and striking colors, that nothing can more impress us with the real grandeur and power of Volumnia's character, than his boundless submission to her will--his more than filial tenderness and respect. You gods! I prate, And the most noble mother of the world Leave unsaluted. Sink my knee i' the earth-- Of thy deep duty more impression show Than that of common sons! When his mother appears before him as a suppliant, he exclaims,-- My mother bows; As if Olympus to a molehill should In supplication nod. Here the expression of reverence, and the magnificent image in which it is clothed, are equally characteristic both of the mother and the son. Her aristocratic haughtiness is a strong trait in Volumnia's manner and character, and her supreme contempt for the plebeians, whether they are to be defied or cajoled, is very like what I have heard expressed by some high-born and high-bred women of our own day. I muse my mother Does not approve me further, who was wont To call them woollen vassals; things created To buy and sell with groats; to show bare heads In congregations; to yawn, be still, and wonder When one but of my ordinance stood up To speak of peace or war. And Volumnia reproaching the tribunes,-- 'Twas you incensed the rabble-- Cats, that can judge as fitly of his worth, As I can of those mysteries which Heaven Will not have earth to know. There is all the Roman spirit in her exultation when the trumpets sound the return of Coriolanus. Hark! the trumpets! These are the ushers of Marcius: before him He carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears. And in her speech to the gentle Virgilia, who is weeping her husband's banishment-- Leave this faint puling! and lament as I do In anger--Juno-like!