coriolanus

Well, I must do__. Away, my disposition, and possess me Some harlot__ spirit! My throat of war be turn__, Which quier__ with my drum, into a pipe Small as an eunuch, or the virgin voice That babies lull asleep! The smiles of knaves Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboys_ tears take up The glasses of my sight! A beggar__ tongue Make motion through my lips, and my arm__ knees, Who bow__ but in my stirrup, bend like his That hath receiv__ an alms! I will not do__, Lest I surcease to honor mine own truth, And by my body__ action teach my mind A most inherent baseness.

Let me have war, say I: it exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy; mulled, deaf, sleepy, insensible; a getter of more bastard children than war's a destroyer of men.

No, take more! What may be sworn by, both divine and human, Seal what I end withal! This double worship, Where [one] part does disdain with cause, the other Insult without all reason; where gentry, title, wisdom, Cannot conclude but by the yea and no Of general ignorance_ it must omit Real necessities, and give way the while To unstable slightness. Purpose so barr__, it follows Nothing is done to purpose. Therefore beseech you_ You that will be less fearful than discreet; That love the fundamental part of state More than you doubt the change on__; that prefer A noble life before a long, and wish To jump a body with a dangerous physic That__ sure of death without it_ at once pluck out The multitudinous tongue; let them not lick The sweet which is their poison. Your dishonor Mangles true judgment, and bereaves the state Of that integrity which should become__; Not having the power to do the good it would, For th_ ill which doth control__.

O mother, mother!What have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope,The gods look down, and this unnatural sceneThey laugh at. O my mother, mother! O!You have won a happy victory to Rome;But, for your son,--believe it, O, believe it,Most dangerously you have with him prevail'd,If not most mortal to him.

These are the ushers of Martius: before himHe carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears.Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie,Which being advanc'd, declines, and then men die.