[He rises.]
Whilst with no softer cushion than the flint
I kneel before thee and unproperly
Show duty, as mistaken all this while
Between the child and parent.
[She kneels.]
CORIOLANUS.
What is this?
Your knees to me? To your corrected son?
[He raises her up.]
Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach
Fillip the stars! Then let the mutinous winds
Strike the proud cedars ’gainst the fiery sun,
Murdering impossibility to make
What cannot be slight work.
VOLUMNIA.
Thou art my warrior;
I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady?
CORIOLANUS.
The noble sister of Publicola,
The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle
That’s curdied by the frost from purest snow
And hangs on Dian’s temple!—Dear Valeria.
VOLUMNIA.
This is a poor epitome of yours,
Which by th’ interpretation of full time
May show like all yourself.
CORIOLANUS.
The god of soldiers,
With the consent of supreme Jove, inform
Thy thoughts with nobleness, that thou mayst prove
To shame unvulnerable, and stick i’ th’ wars
Like a great seamark standing every flaw
And saving those that eye thee.