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Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments, (14)
Whose circling shadows Kings have fought to sleep in ?
And might not gain fo great a happiness,
As have thy love! why doft not speak to me ?
Alas, a crimson river of warm blood,
Like to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind,
Doth rise and fall between thy rofy lips,
Coming and going with thy honey breath.
But, sure, some Tereus hath defloured thee;
And left thou shou’dft detect him, cut thy tongue.
Ah, now thou turn'it away thy face for diame!
And, notwithstanding all this lofs of blood,
(As from a conduit with their issuing spouts,)
Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face,
Blushing to be encountred with a cloud.
Shall I speak for thee? Thall I say, 'tis fo?
O, that I knew thy heart, and knew the beast,
That I might rail at him to ease my

Sorrow concealed, like an oven fopt,
Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is,
Fair Philomela, the bat loft her tongue,
And in a tedious sampler few'd her mind !
But lovely niece, that mean is cuc from thee;
A craftier Tereus haft thou met withal,
And he hath cut those pretty fingers off,
That could have better few'd than Philomtel.
Oh, had the monster seen those lilly hands
Tremble, like aspen leaves, upon a lute,
And make the filken strings delight to kiss them;

those Sweet ornaments,
W bofe circling fadows Kings bave fougbt to feep ing
And migbt not gain fo great an bappiness,

As half thy love! ] As balf her love ? But might they gain any part of her love or would the not consent to embrace 'em so much as with one arm ? the poet had no such stuff in his thoughts. My coro rection restores the true meaning; that tho' Princes languishod to Deep in her arms, they could not obtain their suit, or have her love. The very fame corruption has obtain'd in our author's tale of Cepbalus and Procris :

And looks, as do the trees by winter nipt,

Whom frost and cold of fruit and leaves balf tript.
For grammar shews, that we must likewise read here—have fript.

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He would not then have touch'd them for his life.
Or had he heard the heav'nly harmony,
Which that sweet tongue hath made;
He would have dropt his knife, and fell asleep,
As Cerberus at the Thracian poet's feet.
Come, let us go, and make thy father blind;
For such a light will blind a father's eye.
One hour's storm will drown the fragrant meads,
What will whole months of tears thy father's eyes?

Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee : - Oh, could our mourning ease thy misery! [Exeunt.


А с т ІІІ.
SCENE, a Street in Rome.

Enter the Judges and Senators, with Marcus and Quintus

bound, paffing on the page to the place of execution, and Titus going before, pleading.

Ear me, grave fathers; noble tribunes, ftay,

For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent
In dangerous wars, whilft you securely flept:
For all

my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed,
For all the frosty nights that I have watcht,
And for these bitter tears, which you now see
Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks,
Be pitiful to my condemned sons,
Whose fouls are not corrupted, as 'tis thought.
For two and twenty sons I never wept,
Because they died in honour's lofty bed.

[Andronicus lieth dorun, and the Judges pass by bin.
For these, these, tribunes, in the duft I write
My heart's deep languor, and my soul's sad tears :
Let my tears ftanch the earth's dry appetite,
My sons sweet blood will make it shame and blush:
O earth! I will befriend thee more with rain, [Exe.


That shall diftil from these two ancient ruins,
Than youthful April shall with all his showers ; (15)
In summer's drought I'll drop upon thee ftill ;
In winter, with warm tears I'll melt the snow;
And keep eternal spring-time on thy face,
So thou refuse to drink my dear fons blood.

Enter Lucius with his sword drawn.
Oh, reverend tribunes! gentle aged men !
Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death:
And let me say, (that never wept before)
My tears are now prevailing orators.

Luc. Oh, noble father, you lament in vain ;
The tribunes hear you not, no man is by;
And you recount your forrows to a stone.

Tit. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead ;-
Grave tribunes, once more I intreat of you.

Luc. My gracious Lord, no tribune hears you speak.

Tit. Why, 'tis no matter, man ; if they did hear, Thou would not mark me; or if they did mark, They would not pity me. Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones, Who, tho' they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they're better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale ; When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me: And were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these. A stone is soft as wax, tribunes more hard than stones: A stone is silent, and offendeth not, And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death. But wherefore stand' it thou with thy weapon drawn?

(15) Than youthful April shall with all her show'rs;] This is the reading of our poetical editors only; the older copies have it rightly --with all his foow'rs. If they had not remember'd Ovid in his Fafi, lib. IV. ver.

.89. (Aprilem memorant ab aperto tempore di&tum :

Quem Venus injecta vindicat alma manu.) They might, at least, have remembred the first rule in their Propria quæ maribus, that all months and winds are masculines.


Luc. To rescue my two brothers from their death ;
For which attempt, the judges have pronounc'd
My everlasting doom of banishment.

Tit. O happy man, they have befriended thee :
Why, foolish Lucius, doft thou not perceive,
That Rome is but a wilderness of Tygers ;
Tygers must


and Rome affords no prey
But me and mine ; how happy art thou then,
From these devourers to be banished ?
But who comes with our brother Marcus here?

Enter Marcus, and Lavinia.
Mar. Titus, prepare thy noble eyes to weep,
Or if not so, thy noble heart to break :
I bring consuming forrow to thine age.

Tit. Will it consume me? let me see it then.
Mar. This was thy daughter.
Tit. Why, Marcus, fo the is.
Luc. Ah me! this object kills me.

Tit. Faint-hearted boy, arise and look upon her :
Speak, my Lavinia, what accurfed hand
Hath made thee handless, in thy father's spight? (36)
What fool hath added water to the sea ?
Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy ?
My grief was at the height before thou cam't,
And now, like Nilus, it disdaineth bounds :
Give me a sword, I'll chop off my

hands too, For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain : And they have nurs'd this woe, in feeding life: In bootless prayer have they been held up, And they have serv'd me to effectless ufe. Now all the service I require of them, (16)

what accursed band Hath made thee handless in thy father's light ?] But tho’ Lavinia appeared handless in her father's presence, she was not made so in bis right. And if that be the true reading, it can at best bear but this poor meaning, what curs’d hand hath robb’d thee of thy hands, for thy father to see thee in that condition? The light alteration I have given, adds a much more reasonable complaint, and aggravates the sentiment. What cursed hand hath robb’d thee of thy bands, only in despight to thy father, only to encrease his torments:

Is that the one will help to cut the other :
'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou haft no hands,
For hands to do Rome service are but vain.

Luc. Speak, gentle fifter, who hath martyr'd thee?

Mar. 6, that delightful engine of her thoughts,
That blab'd them with such pleasing eloquence,
Is torn from forth that pretty hollow càge,
Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it fung
Sweet various notes, inchanting every ear !

Luc. Oh, say thou for her, who hath done this deed ?

Mar. O, thus I found her straying in the park,
Seeking to hide herself; as doth the deer,
That hath receiv'd some unrecuring wound.

Tit. It was my deer; and he, that wounded her,
Hath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead :
For now I stand, as one upon a rock,
Environ’d with a wilderness of sea,
Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave ;
Expecting ever when fome envious surge
Will in his brinish bowels swallow him.
This way to death my wretched sons are gone :
Here stands my other son, a banish'd man;
And here my brother, weeping at my woes.
But that, which gives my soul the greatest spurn,
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my foul.
Had I but seen thy picture in this plight,
It would have madded me. What shall I do,
Now I behold thy lively body so?
Thou haft no hands to wipe away thy tears,
Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyr'd thee;
Thy husband he is dead; and for his death
Thy brothers are comdemn’d, and dead by this.
Look Marcus ! ah, fon Lucius, look on her:
When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears
Stood on her cheeks ; as doth the honey-dew
Upon a gather'd lilly almost wither’d.
Mar. Perchance, the weeps because they kill'd her

husband. Perchance, because she knows them innocent. Tit. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful,


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