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COMINIUS:
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Look, sir, your mother!
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CORIOLANUS:
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O,
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You have, I know, petition'd all the gods
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For my prosperity!
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VOLUMNIA:
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Nay, my good soldier, up;
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My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and
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By deed-achieving honour newly named,--
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What is it?--Coriolanus must I call thee?--
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But O, thy wife!
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CORIOLANUS:
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My gracious silence, hail!
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Wouldst thou have laugh'd had I come coffin'd home,
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That weep'st to see me triumph? Ay, my dear,
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Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear,
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And mothers that lack sons.
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MENENIUS:
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Now, the gods crown thee!
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CORIOLANUS:
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And live you yet?
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O my sweet lady, pardon.
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VOLUMNIA:
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I know not where to turn: O, welcome home:
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And welcome, general: and ye're welcome all.
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MENENIUS:
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A hundred thousand welcomes. I could weep
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And I could laugh, I am light and heavy. Welcome.
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A curse begin at very root on's heart,
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That is not glad to see thee! You are three
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That Rome should dote on: yet, by the faith of men,
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We have some old crab-trees here
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at home that will not
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Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors:
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We call a nettle but a nettle and
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The faults of fools but folly.
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COMINIUS:
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Ever right.
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CORIOLANUS:
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Menenius ever, ever.
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Herald:
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Give way there, and go on!
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CORIOLANUS:
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VOLUMNIA:
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I have lived
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To see inherited my very wishes
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And the buildings of my fancy: only
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There's one thing wanting, which I doubt not but
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Our Rome will cast upon thee.
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CORIOLANUS:
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Know, good mother,
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I had rather be their servant in my way,
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Than sway with them in theirs.
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COMINIUS:
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On, to the Capitol!
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BRUTUS:
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All tongues speak of him, and the bleared sights
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Are spectacled to see him: your prattling nurse
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Into a rapture lets her baby cry
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While she chats him: the kitchen malkin pins
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Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck,
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Clambering the walls to eye him: stalls, bulks, windows,
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Are smother'd up, leads fill'd, and ridges horsed
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With variable complexions, all agreeing
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In earnestness to see him: seld-shown flamens
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Do press among the popular throngs and puff
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To win a vulgar station: or veil'd dames
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Commit the war of white and damask in
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Their nicely-gawded cheeks to the wanton spoil
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Of Phoebus' burning kisses: such a pother
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As if that whatsoever god who leads him
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Were slily crept into his human powers
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And gave him graceful posture.
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SICINIUS:
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On the sudden,
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I warrant him consul.
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BRUTUS:
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Then our office may,
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During his power, go sleep.
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SICINIUS:
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