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Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight
The closing up of our most wretched eyes !
Now is a time to storm ; why art thou still?
Tit. Ha, ha, ha!
Mar. Why dost thou laugh? it fits vot with this
Tit. Why, I have not another tear to shed:
Besides, this sorrow is an enemy,
And would usurp upon my watry eyes, .
And make them blind with tributary tears;
Then which way shall I find revenge's cave?
For these two heads do seem to speak to me;
And threat me, I shall never come to bliss,
Till all these miscbiefs be return'd again,
Even in their throats that have committed them.
Come, let me see what task I have to do.
You heavy people, circle me about;
That I may turu me to each one of you,
And swear unto my soul 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, sweet wench, between thy
As for thee, boy, go get thee from my sight;
Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay:
Hie to the Goths, and raise an army there:
And, if you love me, as I think you do,
Let's kiss and part, for we have much to do.
: [Exeunt Titus, Marcus, and Lavinia.
Luc. Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father;
The woeful'st man that ever liv'd in Rome !
Farewell, proud Rome! till Lucius come again,
He leaves his pledges dearer than his life.
Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister;
0, 'would thou wert as thou 'tofore hast been !
But now nor Lucius, nor Lavinia lives,
But in oblivion, and hateful griefs.
If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs;
And inake proud Saturninus and bis em press
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. (Erit.
4 room in Titus's house. A banquet set out.
Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and Young Lucius,
a boy. Tit. So, so; now sit: 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 sorrow-wreathen knot; Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands, And cannot passionate our tenfold grief With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine Is left to tyrannise upon my breast; And when my heart, all mad with misery, Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh, Then thus I thump it down.Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs !
[To Lavinia. When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating, Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still. Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans ; Or get some 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 sink, and soaking in, Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.
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 al.
Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands;
To bid Æneas tell the tale twice o'er,
How Troy was burnt, and he made miserable?
o, handle not the theme, to talk of hands;
Lest we remember still, that we have none,
Fye, fye, how frantickly I square my talk !
As if we should forget we had no hands,
1f 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 she says;
I can interpret all her martyr'd signs;
She says, she drinks no other drink but tears,
Brew'd with her sorrows, mesh'd upon her cheeks:
Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thoughts :
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect,
As begging hermits in their holy prayers:
Thou shalt not sigh, vor hold thy stumps to heaven,
Nor wink, nor nod, por kneel, nor make a sign,
But I, of these, will wrest an alphabet,
And, by stillt practice, learn to know thy meaning.
Boy, Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep la-
Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.
Mar. Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov'd, Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness.
Tit. Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears, And tears will quickly melt thy life away.
(Marcus strikes the dish with a knife. What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?
Mar. At that that I have kill'd, my lord ; a fly.
Tit. Out on thee, murderer ! thou kill'st my
Mine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny:
A deed of death, done on the ionocent,
Becomes not Titus'brother: Get thee gone;
I see, thou art not for my company.
Mar. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.
. An allusion to brewing.
t Constant or continual practice,
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 killid
him. Mar. Pardon me, sir; 'twas a black ill-favour'd fly, Like to the empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him.
Tit. 0, 0, 0, Then pardon me for reprehending thee, For thou hast done a charitable deed. Give me thy knife, I will insult on him ; Flattering myself, as if it were the Moor, Come hither purposely to poison me.There's for thyself, and that's for Tamora.Ah, sirrah! Yet I do think we are not brought so low, But that, between us, we can kill a fly, That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor. Mar. Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on
him, He takes false sbadows for true substances.
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.
• This was formerly not a disrespectful expression.
SCENE I. The same. Before Titus's house.
Enter Titus and Marcus. Then enter Young Lu
cius, Lavinia running after him.
Boy, Help, grandsire, help! my aunt Lavinia
Follows me every where, I know not why :-
Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes !
Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean.
Mur. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine
Tit. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm.
Boy. Ay, when my father was in Rome, she did.
Mar. What means my niece Lavinia by these
Tit. Fear her not, Lucius :- Somewhat doth she
See, Lucius, see, how much she makes of thee:
Somewhither would she have thee go with her.
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,
Unless some fit or phrensy 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:
• Tully's Treatise on Eloquence, entitled Orator.