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.
VOLUMNIA.
[To young Martius.] Your knee, sirrah.
[He kneels.]
CORIOLANUS.
That’s my brave boy!
VOLUMNIA.
Even he, your wife, this lady, and myself
Are suitors to you.
[Young Martius rises.]
CORIOLANUS.
I beseech you, peace;
Or, if you’d ask, remember this before:
The thing I have forsworn to grant may never
Be held by you denials. Do not bid me
Dismiss my soldiers or capitulate
Again with Rome’s mechanics. Tell me not
Wherein I seem unnatural; desire not
T’ allay my rages and revenges with
Your colder reasons.