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Home  »  Parnassus  »  William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

Ralph Waldo Emerson, comp. (1803–1882). Parnassus: An Anthology of Poetry. 1880.

From Coriolanus

William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

(See full text.)

Cominius.—I shall lack voice; the deeds of Coriolanus

Should not be uttered feebly.—It is held,

That valor is the chiefest virtue, and

Most dignifies the haver: if it be,

The man I speak of cannot in the world

Be singly counterpoised. At sixteen years,

When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought

Beyond the mark of others: our then dictator,

Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight

When with his Amazonian chin he drove

The bristled lips before him: he bestrid

An o’erpressed Roman, and in the consul’s view

Slew three opposers: Tarquin’s self he met,

And struck him on his knee: in that day’s feats,

When he might act the woman in the scene,

He proved best man of the field, and for his meed

Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age

Man-entered thus, he waxèd like a sea;

And, in the brunt of seventeen battles since,

He lurched all swords o’ the garland.

For this last,

Before and in Corioli, let me say,

I cannot speak him home. He stopped the fliers;

And, by his rare example, made the coward

Turn terror into sport: as waves before

A vessel under sail, so men obeyed,

And fell below his stem: his sword (death’s stamp).

Where it did mark it took; from face to foot

He was a thing of blood, whose every motion

Was timed with dying cries; alone he entered

The mortal gate o’ the city, which he painted

With shunless destiny, aidless came off,

And with a sudden re-enforcement struck

Corioli, like a planet: now all’s his:

When by and by the din of war ’gan pierce

His ready sense: then straight his doubled spirit

Re-quickened what in flesh was fatigate,

And to the battle came he; where he did

Run reeking o’er the lives of men, as if

’Twere a perpetual spoil; and till we called

Both field and city ours, he never stood

To ease his breast with panting.

Our spoils he kicked at,

And looked upon things precious, as they were

The common muck o’ the world; he covets less

Than misery itself would give; rewards

His deeds with doing them; and is content

To spend the time to end it.

His nature is too noble for the world:

He would not flatter Neptune for his trident,

Or Jove for his power to thunder. His heart’s his mouth:

What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent;

And, being angry, does forget that ever

He heard the name of death.