Enter MARCUS, and LAVINIA. Marc. Titus, prepare thy noble eyes to weep, Or, if not so, thy noble heart to break: I bring consuming sorrow to thine age. Tit. Will it consume me? Let me see it, then. Marc. This was thy daughter. Tit.

Why, Marcus, so she is. Luc. Ah me! this object kills me. Tit. Faint-hearted boy, arise and look upon her: Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand Hath made thee handless in thy father's sight? What fool hath added water to the sea? Or brought a fagot to bright-burning Troy? My grief was at the height before thou cam'st, 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 use. Now all the service I require of them Is that the one will help to cut the other. 'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands; For hands, to do Rome service, are but vain. Luc. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr'd thee?

Marc. Oh, that delightful engine of her thoughts, That blabb'd them with such pleasing eloquence, Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage, Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear.

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

Marc. Oh, 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 some 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 soul. 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 hast 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 condemn'd, and dead by this. Look, Marcus! ah, son 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 lily almost wither'd.

Marc. Perchance, she weeps because they kill'd her husband:

Perchance, because she knows them innocent.

Tit. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful,
Because the law hath ta'en revenge on them.
No, no, they would not do so foul a deed;
Witness the sorrow that their sister makes.
Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips,

Or make some sign how I may do thee ease:
Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius,
And thou, and I. sit round about some fountain,

Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks
How they are stain'd like meadows yet not dry
With miry slime left on them by a flood?
And in the fountain shall we gaze so long
Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness,
And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears?
Or shall we cut away our hands, like thine?
Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows
Pass the remainder of our hateful days?
What shall we do? let us that have our tongues
Plot some device of further misery

To make us wonder'd at in time to come.

Luc. Sweet father, cease your tears; for at your grief

See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps. Marc. Patience, dear niece; good Titus, dry thine eyes.

Tit. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! brother, well I wote
Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,
For thou, poor man, hast drown'd it with thine owu.
Luc. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.
Tit. Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her
signs:

Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say
That to her brother which I said to thee.
His napkin, with his true tears all bewet,
Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks.
Oh, what a sympathy of woe is this;
As far from help as limbo is from bliss!

Enter AARON.

Aaron. Titus Andronicus, my lord the emperor Sends thee this word, that if thou love thy sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus, Or any one of you, chop off your hand, And send it to the king: he, for the same, Will send thee hither both thy sons alive, And that shall be the ransom for their fault.

Tit. Oh, gracious emperor! oh, gentle Aaron! Did ever raven sing so like a lark, That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise? With all my heart, I'll send the emperor my hand: Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off?

Luc. Stay, father; for that noble hand of thine, That hath thrown down so many enemies, Shall not be sent: my hand will serve the turn: My youth can better spare my blood than you, And therefore mine shall save my brothers' lives. Marc. Which of your hands hath not defended

Rome,

And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-axe,
Writing destruction on the enemy's castle?
Oh, none of both but are of high desert:
My hand hath been but idle: let it serve
To ransom my two nephews from their death,
Then have I kept it to a worthy end.

Aaron. Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along,

For fear they die before their pardon come.
Marc. My hand shall go.

Luc.
By heaven, it shall not go!
Tit. Sirs, strive no more; such wither'd herbs
as these

Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.

Luc. Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son, Let me redeem my brothers both from death. Marc. And for our father's sake, and mother's

care,

Now let me show a brother's love to thee.

Tit. Agree between you; I will spare my hand Luc. Then I'll go fetch an axe.

SCENE I.-Troy. A Room in PRIAM's Palace.

Enter PANDARUS, and a Servant.

Enter PARIS, and HELEN, attended.

Pan. Fair be to you, my lord, and to all this fair company! fair desires, in all fair measure, fairly

you

Serv. Ay, sir, when he goes before me.
Pan. You depend upon him, I mean.
Serv. Sir, I do depend upon the lord.

Pan. You depend upon a noble gentleman; I

must needs praise him.

Serv. The lord be praised!

Pan. You know me, do you not?

Serv. 'Faith, sir, superficially.

Pan. Friend, know me better; I am the lord Pandarus.

Serv. I hope I shall know your honour better.
Pan. I do desire it.

Serv. You are in the state of grace.

[Music within. || Pan. Grace! not so, friend; honour and lordship are my titles:-What music is this?

Serv. I do but partly know, sir; it is music in parts.

Pan. Know you the musicians?

Serv. Wholly, sir.

Pan. Who play they to?

Serv. To the hearers, sir.

Pan. At whose pleasure, friend?

Serv. At mine, sir, and theirs that love music.
Pan. Command, I mean, friend.
Serv. Who shall I command, sir?

Pan. Friend, we understand not one another; I am too courtly, and thou art too cunning: At whose request do these men play?

Serv. That's to't, indeed, sir: Marry, sir, at the request of Paris my lord, who's there in person; with him, the mortal Venus, the heart-blood of beauty, love's invisible soul,—

Pan. Who, my cousin Cressida ?

Serv. No, sir, Helen; could you not find out that by her attributes?

Pan. It should seem, fellow, that thou hast not seen the lady Cressida. I come to speak with Paris from the prince Troilus: I will make a complimenal assault upon him, for my business

seeths.

Serv. Sodden business! there's a stewed phrase, indeed!

thoughts be your fair pillow!

Helen. Dear lord, you are full of fair words Pan. You speak your fair pleasure, sweet queen. Fair prince, here is good broken music.

Par. You have broke it, cousin: and, by my life, you shall make it whole again; you shall piece it out with a piece of your performance :-Nell, he is full of harmony.

Pan. Truly, lady, no.

Helen. O, sir,

Pan. Rude, in sooth; in good sooth, very rude. Par. Well said, my lord! well, you say so in

fits.

Pan. I have business to my lord, dear queen:My lord, will you vouchsafe me a word?

Helen. Nay, this shall not hedge us out: we'll hear you sing, certainly.

Pan. Well, sweet queen, you are pleasant with me. But, marry, thus, my lord,-My dear lord, and most esteemed friend, your brother Troilus

Helen. My lord Pandarus; honey-sweet lord,— Pan. Go to, sweet queen, go to:-commends himself most affectionately to you.

Helen. You shall not bob us out of our melody: If you do, our melancholy upon your head! Pan. Sweet queen, sweet queen; that's a sweet queen, i' faith.

Helen. And to make a sweet lady sad is a sour offence.

Pan. Nay, that shall not serve your turn; that shall it not, in truth, la. Nay, I care not for such words: no, no.-And, my lord, he desires you, that if the king call for him at supper you will make his

excuse.

Helen. My lord Pandarus,

Pan. What says my sweet queen,-my very very sweet queen?

Par. What exploit's in hand? where sups he to-night?

Helen. Nay, but my lord,—

Pan. What says my sweet queen?-My cousin will fall out with you. You must not know where he sups.

Par. I'll lay my life, with my disposer Cressida.

Pan. No, no, no such matter, you are wide; come, your disposer is sick.

Par. Well, I'll make excuse.

Helen. She shall have it, my lord, if it be not my lord Paris.

Pan. He! no, she'll none o him; they two are

Par. I spy.

Pan. You spy! what do you spy?-Come, give

me an instrument.-Now, sweet queen. Helen. Why, this is kindly done.

Helen. Let thy song be love: this love will undo us all. O, Cupid, Cupid, Cupid!

Pan. Love! ay, that it shall, i' faith.
Par. Ay, good now, love, love, nothing but love.
Pan. In good troth, it begins so:

Love, love, nothing but love, still more!
For, oh, love's bow

Shoots buck and doe:

The shaft confounds,

Not that it wounds,

But tickles still the sore.

These lovers cry-Oh! oh! they die!
Yet that which seems the wound to kill,
Doth turn oh! oh! to ha! ha! he!

So dying love lives still:
Oh! oh! a while, but ha! ha! ha!
Oh! oh! groans out for ha! ha! ha!
Hey ho!

Helen. In love, i' faith, to the very tip of the nose Par. He eats nothing but doves, love; and that breeds hot blood, and hot blood begets hot thoughts, and hot thoughts beget hot deeds, and hot deeds is love.

Pan. Is this the generation of love? hot blood, hot thoughts, and hot deeds?-Why, they are vipers: Is love a generation of vipers? Sweet lord, who's afield to-day!

Par. Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and all the gallantry of Troy: I would fain have armed to-day, but my Nell would not have it so. How chance my brother Troilus went not?

Helen. He hangs the lip at something;-you know all, lord Pandarus.

Pan. Not I, honey-sweet queen.-I long to hear how they sped to-day.-You'll remember your brother's excuse?

Par. To a hair.

See, Lucius, see, how much she makes of thee:
Somewhither would she have thee go with her.
Ay, boy, Cornelia never with more care
Read to her son 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,
Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her:
For I have heard my grandsire say full oft,
Extremity of griefs would make men mad:
And I have read that Hecuba of Troy

Ran mad through sorrow: That made me to fear;
Although, my lord, I know my noble aunt
Loves me as dear as e'er my mother did,
And would not, but in fury, fright my youth:
Which made me down to throw my books, and fly,
Causeless, perhaps : but pardon me, sweet aunt:

And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,

I will most willingly attend your ladyship.
Marc. Lucius, I will.

[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.
But thou art deeper read, and better skill'd:
Come, and take choice of all my library;
And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens
Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed.
What book?

Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus ?
Marc. I think she means that there was more

than one

Confederate in the fact;-ay, more there was: Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge. Tit. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so? Boy. Grandsire, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphoses; My mother gave it me.

Marc. For love of her that's gone, Perhaps, she cull'd it from among the rest.

Tit. Soft! How busily she turns the leaves! Help her what would she find? Lavinia, shall I read?

:

See, see! Ay, such a place there is where we did hunt,

(O had we never, never hunted there!) Pattern'd by that the poet here describes, By nature made for murthers and for rapes.

Marc. O, why should nature build so foul a den, Unless the gods delight in tragedies?

Tit. Give signs, sweet girl,-for here are none but friends,

What Roman lord it was durst do the deed?
Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst,
That left the camp to sin in Lucrece' bed.

Marc. Sit down, sweet niece; brother, sit down by me.

Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,

Inspire me that I may this treason find.
My lord, look here; look here, Lavinia.

[He writes his name with his staff, and guides
it with feet and mouth.

This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst,
This, after me. I have writ my name,
Without the help of any hand at all.

Curs'd be that heart that forc'd us to this shift!
Write thou, good niece, and here display at last,
What God will have discover'd for revenge.
Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain,
That we may know the traitors and the truth!

[She takes the staff in her mouth, and guides it with her stumps, and writes.

Tit. Oh, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ? 'Stuprum, Chiron, Demetrius."

Marc. What, what! the lustful sons of Tamora, Performers of this heinous, bloody deed?

Tit. Magni Dominator poli,

Tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides?

Marc. Oh, calm thee, gentle lord; although I

know

There is enough written upon this earth
To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts,
And arm the minds of infants to exclaims.
My lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel;
And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope;
And swear with me,-as with the woful fere,
And father of that chaste dishonour'd dame,
Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece' rape,—
That we will prosecute, by good advice,
Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths,
And see their blood, or die with this reproach.

Tit. 'Tis sure enough, an you knew how;
But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware:
The dam will wake, and if she wind you once,
She's with the lion deeply still in league,
And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back,
And when he sleeps, will she do what she list.
You are a young huntsman, Marcus; let it alone;
And, come, I will go get a leaf of brass,

And with a gad of steel will write these words,
And lay it by the angry northern wind

Will blow these sands like Sibyls' leaves abroad, And where's your lesson then? Boy, what say you?

Boy. I say, my lord, that if I were a man, Their mother's bed-chamber should not be safe, For these bad bondmen to the yoke of Rome. Marc. Ay, that's my boy; thy father hath full oft

For his ungrateful country done the like.

Boy. And, uncle, so will I, an if I live.

Tit. Come, go with me into mine armoury;
Lucius, I'll fit thee; and withal, my boy
Shall carry for me to the empress' sons

guilt,

And sends the weapons wrapp'd about with lines,
That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick:
But were our witty empress well a-foot,
She would applaud Andronicus' conceit.
But let her rest in her unrest awhile.

[The preceding seven lines are spoken aside.
And now, young lords, was't not a happy star
Led us to Rome, strangers, and more than so,
Captives, to be advanced to this height?
It did me good, before the palace gate,
To brave the tribune in his brother's hearing.