VOLUMNIA. I prithee now, my son, Go to them with this bonnet in thy hand, And thus far having stretched it—here be with them— Thy knee bussing the stones—for in such busines Action is eloquence, and the eyes of th’ ignorant More learned than the ears—waving thy head, Which often thus correcting thy stout heart, Now humble as the ripest mulberry That will not hold the handling. Or say to them Thou art their soldier and, being bred in broils, Hast not the soft way, which thou dost confess Were fit for thee to use, as they to claim, In asking their good loves; but thou wilt frame Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far As thou hast power and person. MENENIUS. This but done Even as she speaks, why, their hearts were yours; For they have pardons, being asked, as free As words to little purpose. VOLUMNIA. Prithee now, Go, and be ruled; although I know thou hadst rather Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf Than flatter him in a bower. Enter Cominius. Here is Cominius. COMINIUS. I have been i’ th’ marketplace; and, sir, ’tis fit You make strong party or defend yourself By calmness or by absence. All’s in anger. MENENIUS. Only fair speech. COMINIUS. I think ’twill serve, if he Can thereto frame his spirit. VOLUMNIA. He must, and will.— Prithee, now, say you will, and go about it. CORIOLANUS. Must I go show them my unbarbed sconce? Must I With my base tongue give to my noble heart A lie that it must bear? Well, I will do’t. Yet, were there but this single plot to lose, This mould of Martius, they to dust should grind it And throw’t against the wind. To th’ marketplace! You have put me now to such a part which never I shall discharge to th’ life. COMINIUS. Come, come, we’ll prompt you. VOLUMNIA. I prithee now, sweet son, as thou hast said My praises made thee first a soldier, so, To have my praise for this, perform a part Thou hast not done before. CORIOLANUS. Well, I must do’t. Away, my disposition, and possess me Some harlot’s spirit! My throat of war be turned, Which choired with my drum, into a pipe Small as an eunuch or the virgin voice That babies lulls asleep! The smiles of knaves Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboys’ tears take up The glasses of my sight! A beggar’s tongue Make motion through my lips, and my armed knees, Who bowed but in my stirrup, bend like his That hath received an alms! I will not do’t, Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth And, by my body’s action, teach my mind A most inherent baseness. VOLUMNIA. At thy choice, then. To beg of thee, it is my more dishonour 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.