SCENE VII. A camp, at a small distance from Rome. The Tragedy of Coriolanus  Shakespeare homepage  |  Coriolanus  | Act 4, Scene 7 

 Previous scene  |  Next scene  SCENE VII. A camp, at a small distance from Rome. 

 Enter AUFIDIUS and his Lieutenant  AUFIDIUS  Do they still fly to the Roman? 

 Lieutenant  I do not know what witchcraft's in him, but 

 Your soldiers use him as the grace 'fore meat, 

 Their talk at table, and their thanks at end; 

 And you are darken'd in this action, sir, 

 Even by your own. 

 AUFIDIUS  I cannot help it now, 

 Unless, by using means, I lame the foot 

 Of our design. He bears himself more proudlier, 

 Even to my person, than I thought he would 

 When first I did embrace him: yet his nature 

 In that's no changeling; and I must excuse 

 What cannot be amended. 

 Lieutenant  Yet I wish, sir,-- 

 I mean for your particular,--you had not 

 Join'd in commission with him; but either 

 Had borne the action of yourself, or else 

 To him had left it solely. 

 AUFIDIUS  I understand thee well; and be thou sure, 

 when he shall come to his account, he knows not 

 What I can urge against him. Although it seems, 

 And so he thinks, and is no less apparent 

 To the vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly. 

 And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state, 

 Fights dragon-like, and does achieve as soon 

 As draw his sword; yet he hath left undone 

 That which shall break his neck or hazard mine, 

 Whene'er we come to our account. 

 Lieutenant  Sir, I beseech you, think you he'll carry Rome? 

 AUFIDIUS  All places yield to him ere he sits down; 

 And the nobility of Rome are his: 

 The senators and patricians love him too: 

 The tribunes are no soldiers; and their people 

 Will be as rash in the repeal, as hasty 

 To expel him thence. I think he'll be to Rome 

 As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it 

 By sovereignty of nature. First he was 

 A noble servant to them; but he could not 

 Carry his honours even: whether 'twas pride, 

 Which out of daily fortune ever taints 

 The happy man; whether defect of judgment, 

 To fail in the disposing of those chances 

 Which he was lord of; or whether nature, 

 Not to be other than one thing, not moving 

 From the casque to the cushion, but commanding peace 

 Even with the same austerity and garb 

 As he controll'd the war; but one of these-- 

 As he hath spices of them all, not all, 

 For I dare so far free him--made him fear'd, 

 So hated, and so banish'd: but he has a merit, 

 To choke it in the utterance. So our virtues 

 Lie in the interpretation of the time: 

 And power, unto itself most commendable, 

 Hath not a tomb so evident as a chair 

 To extol what it hath done. 

 One fire drives out one fire; one nail, one nail; 

 Rights by rights falter, strengths by strengths do fail. 

 Come, let's away. When, Caius, Rome is thine, 

 Thou art poor'st of all; then shortly art thou mine. 



 Exeunt  Shakespeare homepage  |  Coriolanus  | Act 4, Scene 7 

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