Corio. You common cry of Curs, whose breath I hate, As reeke a'th' rotten Fennes: whose Loues I prize, As the dead Carkasses of vnburied men, That do corrupt my Ayre: I banish you, And heere remaine with your vncertaintie. Let euery feeble Rumor shake your hearts: Your Enemies, with nodding of their Plumes Fan you into dispaire: Haue the power still To banish your Defenders, till at length Your ignorance (which findes not till it feeles, Making but reseruation of your selues, Still your owne Foes) deliuer you As most abated Captiues, to some Nation That wonne you without blowes, despising For you the City. Thus I turne my backe; There is a world elsewhere. Exeunt. Coriolanus, Cominius, with Cumalijs. They all shout, and throw vp their Caps. Edile. The peoples Enemy is gone, is gone All. Our enemy is banish'd, he is gone: Hoo, oo Sicin. Go see him out at Gates, and follow him As he hath follow'd you, with all despight Giue him deseru'd vexation. Let a guard Attend vs through the City All. Come, come, lets see him out at gates, come: The Gods preserue our Noble Tribunes, come. Exeunt. Actus Quartus. Enter Coriolanus, Volumnia, Virgilia, Menenius, Cominius, with the yong Nobility of Rome. Corio. Come leaue your teares: a brief farwel: the beast With many heads butts me away. Nay Mother, Where is your ancient Courage? You were vs'd To say, Extreamities was the trier of spirits, That common chances. Common men could beare, That when the Sea was calme, all Boats alike Shew'd Mastership in floating. Fortunes blowes, When most strooke home, being gentle wounded, craues A Noble cunning. You were vs'd to load me With Precepts that would make inuincible The heart that conn'd them Virg. Oh heauens! O heauens! Corio. Nay, I prythee woman Vol. Now the Red Pestilence strike al Trades in Rome, And Occupations perish Corio. What, what, what: I shall be lou'd when I am lack'd. Nay Mother, Resume that Spirit, when you were wont to say, If you had beene the Wife of Hercules, Six of his Labours youl'd haue done, and sau'd Your Husband so much swet. Cominius, Droope not, Adieu: Farewell my Wife, my Mother, Ile do well yet. Thou old and true Menenius, Thy teares are salter then a yonger mans, And venomous to thine eyes. My (sometime) Generall, I haue seene the Sterne, and thou hast oft beheld Heart-hardning spectacles. Tell these sad women, Tis fond to waile ineuitable strokes, As 'tis to laugh at 'em. My Mother, you wot well My hazards still haue beene your solace, and Beleeu't not lightly, though I go alone Like to a lonely Dragon, that his Fenne Makes fear'd, and talk'd of more then seene: your Sonne Will or exceed the Common, or be caught With cautelous baits and practice Volum. My first sonne, Whether will thou go? Take good Cominius With thee awhile: Determine on some course More then a wilde exposture, to each chance That starts i'th' way before thee