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Than youthful April fhall with all his fhowers;
In fummer's drought I'll drop upon thee ftill;
In winter, with warm tears I'll melt the fnow;
And keep eternal fpring-time on thy face,
So thou refufe to drink my dear fons' blood.

Enter Lucius with his fword drawn.
Oh, reverend Tribunes! gentle aged men!
Unbind my fons, reverfe the doom of death:
And let me fay, (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, They would not mark me; or, if they did mark, They would not pity me.

Therefore I tell my forrows to the stones,
Who, tho' they cannot answer my distress,
Yet in fome fort 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 feem to weep with me;
And were they but attired in grave weeds,
Rome could afford no Tribune like to these.

A ftone is foft as wax, Tribunes more hard than ftones:
A ftone is filent, and offendeth not,

And Tribunes with their tongues doom men to death.
But wherefore stand'ft thou with thy weapon drawn?
Luc. To refcue 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 muft prey, and Rome affords no prey
But me and mine; how happy art thou then,

K 4

From

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 fo, thy noble heart to break :
I bring confuming forrow to thine age.

Tit. Will it confume me? let me fee it then.
Mar. This was thy daughter.

Tit. Why, Marcus, fo the is.

Luc. Ah me! this object kills me.

Tit. Faint-hearted boy, arife and look upon Speak, my Lavinia, what accurfed hand

her:

Hath made thee handlefs, in thy father's fpight? (9)
What fool hath added water to the fea?

Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy?
My grief was at the height before thou cam'ft,
And now, like Nilus, it difdaineth bounds :
Give me a fword, 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 ferv'd me to effectless use.
Now all the fervice I require of them,
Is that the one will help to cut the other :
"Tis well, Lavinia, that thou haft no hands,
For hands to do Rome fervice are but vain.

Luc. Speak, gentle fifter, who hath martyr'd thee?
Mar. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts,

i

(9)

what accurfed Hand

Hath made thee handlefs in thy Father's Sight?] But tho' Lavinia appear'd handless in her Father's Prefence, she was not made fo in his Sight. And if that be the true Reading, it can at beft bear but this poor Meaning, What curs'd Hand hath robb'd thee of thy Hands, for thy Father to fee thee in that Condition? The flight Alteration, I have given, adds a much more reasonable Complaint, and aggravates the Sentiment. What curfed Hand hath robb'd thee of thy Hands, only in Despight to thy Father, only to encrease his Torments?

That

That blab'd them with fuch pleafing eloquence,
Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage,
Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it fung
Sweet various notes, inchanting every ear!

Luc. Oh, fay thou for her, who hath done this deed?
Mar. O, thus I found her ftraying in the park,
Seeking to hide her felf; as doth the deer,
That hath receiv'd fome 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 ftand, 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 furge
Will in his brinifh bowels fwallow him.
This way to death my wretched fons are gone:
Here ftands my other fon, a banish'd man ;
And here my brother, weeping at my woes.
But that, which gives my foul the greatest fpurn,
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my foul.
Had I but feen thy picture in this plight,
It would have madded me. What fhall I do,
Now I behold thy lovely body fo?

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 condemn'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 almoft wither'd.

Mar. Perchance, fhe 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 fo foul a deed;
Witness the forrow, that their fifter makes.
Gentle Lavinia, let me kifs thy lips,
Or make fome figns how I may do thee ease:

K 5

Shall

Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius,
And thou, and I, fit round about fome fountain,
Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks,
How they are ftain'd like meadows yet not dry
With mirey flime left on them by a flood?
And in the fountain fhall we gaze fo long,
"Till the fresh tafte be taken from that clearness,
And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears?
Or fhall we cut away our hands like thine?
Or fhall we bite our tongues, and in dumb fhows
Pafs the remainder of our hateful days?

What shall we do? let us, that have our tongues,
Plot fome device of further mifery,

To make us wondred at in time to come.

Luc. Sweet father, ceafe your tears; for, at your grief, See, how my wretched fifter fobs and weeps.

Mar. Patience, dear niece; good Titus, dry thine eyes.
Tit. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! brother, well I wot,
Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,

For thou, poor man, haft drown'd it with thine own.
Luc. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.
Tit. Mark, Marcus, mark; I understand her figns;
Had fhe a tongue to fpeak, now would she say
That to her brother which I faid to thee.
His napkin, with his true tears all bewet,
Can do no fervice on her forrowful cheeks.
Oh, what a fympathy of woe is this!
As far from help as Limbo is from blifs.

Enter Aaron.

Aar. Titus Andronicus, my lord the Emperor
Sends thee this word; that if thou love thy fons,
Let Marcus, Lucius, or thy felf, old Titus,
Or any one of you, chop off your hand,
And fend it to the King; he for the fame
Will fend thee hither both thy fons alive,
And that shall be the ransom for their fault.
Tit. Oh, gracious Emperor! oh, gentle Aaron !
Did ever raven fing fo like a lark,

That gives fweet tidings of the Sun's uprife?

With all my heart, I'll fend 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 fo many enemies,
Shall not be fent; my hand will ferve the turn.
My youth can better fpare my blood than you,
And therefore mine fhall fave my brothers' lives.

Mar. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome, And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-ax,

Writing Destruction on the enemies' Cafque? (10)
Oh, none of Both but are of high defert:
My hand hath been but idle, let it ferve

To ranfom my two Nephews from their death;
Then have I kept it to a worthy end.

Aar. Nay, come, agree, whofe hand shall go along,
For fear they die before their Pardon come.
Mar. My hand shall go.

Luc. By heav'n, it shall not go.

Tit. Sirs, ftrive no more, fuch wither'd herbs as thefe Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.

Luc. Sweet father, if I fhall be thought thy fon,

Let me redeem my brothers Both from death.
Mar. And for our father's fake, and mother's care,

(10) Which of your Hands hath not defended Rome,

And rear'd aloft the bloody Battle-axe,

Writing Destruction on the Enemies' Caftle?] This is a Paffage, which shews a most wonderful Sagacity in our Editors. They could not, fure, intend an Improvement of the Art Military, by teaching us that it was ever a Custom to hew down Castles with the Battle Axe. Or could they have a Defign to tell us, that they wore Castles formerly on their heads for defenfive Armour? I ventur'd, fome time ago, to correct the Paffage thus;

Writing Destruction on the Enemies' Cask.

i. e. an Helmet; from the French Word, une Cafque. A bro. kenk in the Manuscript might easily be mistaken for tl, and thus a Caftle was built at once. But as I think it is much more feisible to split an Helmet with a Battle-axe, than to cut down a Cafile with it, I fhall continue to ftand by my Emendation.

Now

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