Paroles de Coriolan

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