Will you wash your hands in his heart, will you dwell?
Will you pay yourself with being proud as well?
He has a heart as little apt as yours
But it harbours no complaints, no remorse
Coriolan, Coriolan, Coriolan

Coriolan, Coriolan, Coriolan
Wouldn't flatter you for a love forlorn
For he has no equal in pride, in scorn
And what his breast forges his tongue must vent
For it's hard tô walk with your knees bent