Brutus: There’s no more to be said, but he is banished
As enemy to the people and his country.
It shall be so.
All Plebians: It shall be so, it shall be so!
Coriolanus: You common cry of curs, whose breath I hate
As reek o’th’ rotten fens, whose loves I prize
As the dead carcasses of unburied men
That do corrupt my air, I banish you!
And here remain with your uncertainty!
Let every feeble rumor shake your hearts!
Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes,
Fan you into despaire! Have the power still
To banish your defenders, till at length
Your ignorance — which finds not till it feels,
Making but reservation of yourselves,
Still your own foes — deliver you
As most abated captives to some nation
That won you without blows! Despising
For you the city, thus I turn my back.
There is a world elsewhere.