One of the most natural traits in this play is the difference of the
interest taken in the success of Coriolanus by his wife and mother.
The one is only anxious for his honour; the other is fearful for his
life.
Volumnia. Methinks I hither hear your husband's drum:
I see him pluck Aufidius down by th' hair:
Methinks I see him stamp thus--and call thus--
Come on, ye cowards; ye were got in fear
Though you were born in Rome; his bloody brow
With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes
Like to a harvest man, that's task'd to mow
Or all, or lose his hire.
Virgila. His bloody brow! Oh Jupiter, no blood.
Volumnia. Away, you fool; it more becomes a man
Than gilt his trophy. The breast of Hecuba,
When she did suckle Hector, look'd not lovelier
Than Hector's forehead, when it spit forth blood
At Grecian swords contending.
When she hears the trumpets that proclaim her son's return, she says
in the true spirit of a Roman matron:
These are the ushers of Martius: before him
He 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.
Coriolanus himself is a complete character: his love of reputation,
his contempt of popular opinion, his pride and modesty, are
consequences of each other.
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