[Exeunt Lucius and Marcus Tit. Come hither, Aaron, I'll deceive them both: Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee, mine. Aar. If that be call'd deceit, I will be honest, And never whilst I live deceive men fo. But I'll deceive you in another fort,
And that you'll fay ere half an hour pafs.
[He cuts off Titus's band. Enter Lucius and Marcus again.
Tit. Now ftay your ftrife; what shall be, is dispatchta Good Aaron, give his Majeftý my hand : Tell him, it was a hand that warded him From thousand dangers, bid him bury it : More hath it merited? that let it have. As for my fons, fay, I account of them As jewels purchas'd at an eafie price, And yet dear too, because I bought mine own. Aar. I go, Andronicus, and for thy hand Look by and by to have thy fons with thee: Their heads I mean.- -O, how this villainy Doth fat me with the very thought of it! Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace, Aaron will have his foul black like his face.
Tit. O hear! -I lift this one hand up to heav'n, And bow this feeble ruin to the earth;
If any Power pities wretched tears,
To that I call: What, wilt thou kneel with me?
Do then, dear heart, for heav'n fhall hear our prayers,
Or with our fighs we'll breathe the welkin dim,
And ftain the fun with fogs, as fometime clouds
When they do hug him in their melting bofoms.
Mar. Oh brother, fpeak with poffibilities,
And do not break into thefe two extreams.
Tit. Is not my forrow deep, having no bottom?
Then be my paffions bottomlefs with them.
Mar. But yet let reafon govern thy lament.
Tit. If there were reafon for these miferies,
Then into limi's could I bind my woes.
When heav'n doth weep, deth not the earth o'erflow?
If the winds rage, doth not the fea wax mad,
Threatning the welkin with his big-fwoln face?
And wilt thou have a reafon for this coil?
I am the fea, hark how her fighs do blow;
She is the weeping welkin, I the earth :
Then must my fea be moved with her fighs,
Then must my earth with her continual tears
Become a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd:
For why, my bowels cannot hide her woes,
But like a drunkard muft I vomit them;
Then give me leave, for lofers will have leave
To eafe their ftomachs with their bitter tongues.
Enter a Meffenger bringing in two beads and a band..
Mef. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repay'd
For that good hand thou fent'ft the Emperor;
Here are the heads of thy two noble fons,
And here's thy hand in fcorn to thee fent back
j
Thy grief's their fport, thy refolution mockt:
That woe is me to think upon thy woes
More than remembrance of my father's death.
Mar. Now let hot Etna cool in Sicily,
And be my heart an ever-burning hell!
Thefe miferies are more than may be born.
To weep with them that weep doth ease fome deal,
But forrow flouted at is double death.
Luc. Ah that this fight fhould make fo deep a wound,
And yet detefted life not fhrink thereat;
That ever death fhould let life bear his name,
Where life hath no more intereft but to breathe!
Mar. Alas, poor heart, that kifs is comfortless,
As frozen water to a starved fnake.
Tit. When will this fearful flumber have an end?
Mar. Now farewel flattery! die, Andronicus;
Thou doft not flumber; fee thy two fons heads,
Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here;
Thy other banifh'd fon with this dire fight
Struck pale and bloodless, and thy brother I,
Even like a ftony image, cold and numb.
Ah now no more will I control thy griefs,
Rend off thy filver hair, thy other hand
Gnawing with thy teeth, and be this difmal fight
The clofing up of our moft wretched eyes:
Now is a time to ftorm, why art thou ftill?
Mar. Why doft thou laugh; it fits not with this hour.
Tit. Why I have not another tear to shed;
Befides, this forrow is an enemy,
And would ufurp upon my watry eyes,
And make them blind with tributary tears;
Then which way fhall I find Revenge's cave?
For these two heads do feem to speak to me,
And threat me, I fhall never come to blifs,
'Till all thefe mifchiefs be return'd again,
Even in their throats that have committed them.
Come let me fee what task I have to do-
You heavy people, circle me about,
That I may turn me to each one of you,
And fwear unto my foul to right your wrongs.
The vow is made; come, brother, take a head,
And in this hand the other will I bear;
Lavinia, thou shalt be employed in these things;
Bear thou my hand, fweet wench, between thy teeth;
As for thee, boy, go get thee from my fight,
Thou art an exile, and thou must not ftay.
Hie to the Goths, and raise an army there;
And if you love me, as I think you do,
Let's kifs and part, for we have much to do.
SCENE V. Manet Lucius.
Luc. Farewel, Andronicus, my noble father,
The woful'ft man that ever liv'd in Rome;
Farewel, proud Rome; 'till Lucius come again,
He leaves his pledges dearer than his life ;
Farewel, Lavinia, my noble fifter,
O would thou wert as thou tofore haft been!
But now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives,
But in oblivion and hateful griefs;
If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs,
And make proud Saturninus and his Empress
Beg at the gates like Tarquin and his Queen.
Now will I to the Goths and raise a power,
To be reveng'd on Rome and Saturnine.
An Apartment in Titus's Houfe. A Banquet.
Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and the boy Lucius.
Tit. So, fo, now fit, and look you eat no more
Than will preserve just so much strength in us,
As will revenge these bitter woes of ours.
Marcus, unknit that forrow-wreathen knot;
Thy neice and I, poor creatures, want our hands,
And cannot paffionate our tenfold grief
With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine
Is left to tyrannize upon my breaft,
And when my heart, all mad with mifery,
Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh,
Then thus I thump it down.-
Thou map of woe, that thus doft talk in figns,
When thy poor heart beats with outragious beating,
Thou canst not ftrike it thus to make it ftill;
Wound it with fighing, girl, kill it with groans;
Or get fome little knife between thy teeth,
And just against thy heart make thou a hole,
That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall
May run into that fink, and foaking in,
Drown the lamenting fool in fea-falt tears.
Mar. Fie, Brother, fie, teach her not thus to lay
Such violent hands upon her tender life.
Tit. How now! has forrow made thee doat already? ̧
Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I ;
What violent hands can fhe lay on her life?
Ah, wherefore doft thou urge the name of hands?
To bid Æneas tell the tale twice o'er,
How Troy was burnt, and he made miferable?
O handle not the theme, no talk of hands,
Left we remember ftill that we have none.
Fie, fie, how frantickly I fquare my talk,
As if we fhould forget we had no hands,
If Marcus did not name the word of hands?
Come, let's fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this.
Here is no drink: hark, Marcus, what the fays,
This fcene is not in the old edition.
I can interpret all her martyr'd figns;
She fays, the drinks no other drink but tears,
Brew'd with her forrows, mefh'd upon her cheeks.
Speechless complaint- -O I will learn thy thought,
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect
As begging hermits in their holy prayers.
Thou shalt not figh, nor hold thy stumps to heav'n,
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a fign,
But I, of these, will wreft an alphabet,
And by ftill practice learn to know thy meaning.
Boy. Good grandfire, leave thefe bitter deep laments,
Make my aunt merry with fome pleafing tale.
Mar. Alas, the tender boy in paffion mov'd,
Doth weep to fee his grandfire's heaviness.
Tit. Peace, tender fapling; thou art made of tears,
And tears will quickly melt thy life away.
[Marcus ftrikes the difb with a knife. What doft thou ftrike at, Marcus, with thy knife? Mar. At that that I have kill'd, my Lord, a fly. Tit. Out on thee, murderer; thou kill'ft my heart, Mine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny: A deed of death done on the innocent
Becomes not Titus' brother, Get thee gone,
I fee thou art not for my company.
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 flender, gilded wings,
And buz laments and dolings in the air?
That with his pretty buzzing melody,
Came here to make us merry,
And thou haft kill'd him.
Mar. Pardon me, it was a black-ill-favour'd fly,
Like to the Emprefs' Moor, therefore I kill'd him.
Tit. 0, 0, 0,
Then pardon me for reprehending thee,
For thou haft done a charitable deed;
Give me thy knife, I will infult on him,
Flattering my felf, as if it were the Moor,
Come hither purposely to poifon me.
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