Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans; May run into that sink, and soaking in, Mar. Fye, brother, fye! teach her not thus to lay Such violent hands upon her tender life. Tit. How now! has sorrow made thee dote already? Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I. Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands; says; Come, let's fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this:— As begging hermits in their holy prayers: 1 And, by still practice, learn to know thy meaning. Mar. Alas, the tender boy, in pafsion mov’d, Tit. Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears, [Marcus strikes the dish with a knife. A deed of death, done on the innocent, I see, thou art not for my company. gone; Mar. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly. Tit. But how, if that fly had a father and mother? How would he hang his slender gilded wings, And buz lamenting doings in the air? Poor harmless fly! That with his pretty buzzing melody, Came here to make us merry; and thou hast kill'd him. Like to the emprefs' Moor; therefore I kill'd him. Tit. 0, 0, 0, Then pardon me for reprehending thee, For thou hast done a charitable deed. There's for thyself, and that's for Tamora.- Yet I do think we are not brought so low, But that, between us, we can kill a fly, Mar. Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on him, Tit. Come, take away.-Lavinia, go with me: I'll to thy closet; and go read with thee Sad stories, chanced in the times of old. Come, boy, and go with me; thy sight is young, And thou shalt read when mine begins to dazzle. [Exeunt. Enter Titus and Marcus. Then enter young Lucius, Lavinia running after him. Boy. Help, grandsire, help! my aunt Lavinia Mar. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine aunt.. Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care Read to her sons, than she hath read to thee, Sweet poetry, and Tully's Orator. Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus? Boy. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess, Ran mad through sorrow: That made me to fear; And would not, but in fury, fright my youth: I will most willingly attend your ladyship. [Lavinia turns over the books which Lucius has let fall. Tit. How now, Lavinia?—Marcus, what means this? Some book there is that she desires to see:— Which is it, girl, of these?—Open them, boy.— Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus? Mar. I think, she means, that there was more than one Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge. My mother gave it me. Mar. For love of her that's gone, Perhaps she cull'd it from among the rest. Tit. Soft! see, how busily she turns the leaves! What would she find?-Lavinia, shall I read? |