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

Tit. Agree between you, I will spare my hand.
Luc. Then I'll go fetch an ax.
Mar. But I will use the ax.

[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, whilft I live, deceive men fo. But I'll deceive you in another fort, And that, you'll say, ere half an hour pass. [Afide.

[He cuts off Titus's Hand.
Enter Lucius and Marcus again.
Tit. Now ftay your ftrife; what shall be, is dispatch'd :
Good Aaron, give his Majesty 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 sons, say, I account of them
As jewels purchas'd at an easy price;

yet dear too, because I bought mine own.
Aar. I


Andronicus; and for thy hand Look by and by to have thy fons with thee : 'Their heads, I mean. Oh, how this villany [Afide. Doth fat me with the very thought of it! Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace, Aaron will have his soul black like his face. [Exit.

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 stain the fun with fogs, as sometime clouds, When they do hug him in their melting bosoms.

Mar. Oh! brother, speak with possibilities, And do not break into these deep extremes.

Tit. Is not my forrow deep, having no bottom ? Then be my passions bottomless with them.



Mar. But yet let reason govern thy Lament.

Tit. If there were reason for these miseries,
Then into limits could I bind my woes.
When heav'n doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow?
If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad,
Threatning the welkin with his big-swol'n face ?
And wilt thou have a reason for this coil ?
I the sea; hark, how her fighs do blow ;
She is the weeping welkin, I the earth :
Then must my sea 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, must I vomit them ;
Then give me leave, for losers will have leave
To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.
Enter a Mesenger, bringing in two heads and

a hand.
Mef. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repay'd
For that good hand thou sent'it the Emperor ;
Here are the heads of thy two noble fons,
And here's thy-hand in fcorn to thee fent back;
Thy grief's their sport, thy resolution mockt:
That woe is me to think upon thy woes,
More than remembrance of my father's death. [Exit.

Mar. Now let hot Ætna cool in Sicily,
And be my heart an ever-burning hell ;
These miseries are more than may be borne !
To weep with them that weep doth ease fome deal,
But forrow flouted at is double death.

Luc. Ah, that this fight thould make so deep a wound,
And yet detested life not shrink thereat ;
That ever death should let life bear his name,
Where life hath no more interest but to breathe.

Mar. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless, As frozen water to a starved snake.

Tit. When will this fearful slumber have an end ? Mar. Now, farewel, flattery ! die, Andronicus ; Thou doft not slumber ; see, thy two sons' heads,


Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here;
Thy other banish'd son with this dear fight
Struck pale and bloodless ; and thy brother I,
Even like a stony image, cold and numb.
Ah! now no more will I controul thy griefs ; (11)
Rend off thy filver hair, thy other hand
Gnawing with thy teeth, and be this dismal fight
The closing up of your moft wretched eyes !
Now is a time to storm, why art thou still ?

Tit. Ha, ha, ha!
Mar. Why doft thou laugh! it fits not with this hour.

Tit. Why, I have not another tear to shed ;
Besides, this forrow 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 mischiefs 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 swear unto my foul to right your wrongs.
T'he vow is made ; come, Brother, take a head,
And in this hand the other will I bear;
Lavinia, thou shalt be employ'd in these things ;
Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth ;
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.

(11) Ah, now no more will I controul my Griefs ; ] I read,thy Griefs. Marcus had before perswaded Titus to be temperate and reftrain the Excess of his Sorrows: but now, says be, that so miserable an Object is presented to your Sight as a . dear Daughter so heinously abusod, e'en indulge your Sorrows till they put an end to your miserable Life.


Manant 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. (Exit Lucius.

SCE N E, an Apartment in Titus's House.


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Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and young Lucius,

a Boy. Tit. (), 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 sorrow-wreathen knot; Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands, And cannot passionate our ten-fold grief With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine Is left to tyrannize upon my breast; And when my heart, all mad wich misery, Beats in this hollow prison of my feth, Then thus I thump it down. Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in figns ! When thy poor heart beats with outragious beating, Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still; Wound it with fighing, 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. Fie, brother, fie, teach her not thus to lay
Such violent hands upon her tender life.

Tit. How now! has sorrow made thee doat already?
Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I ;
What violent hands can she lay on her life ?
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 theam ; no talk of hands,
Left we remember still, that we have none.
Fie, fie, how frantickly I square my talk,
As if we should 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 she says,
I can interpret all her martyr'd signs;
She says, the drinks no other drink but tears,
Brew'd with her forrows, mesh'd upon her cheeks.
Speechless complaint!—0, I will learn thy thought;
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect,
As begging hermits in their holy prayers.
Thou thalt not figh, nor hold thy stumps to heav'n,
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign,
But I, of these, will wreft an alphabet,
And by ftill practice learn to know thy meaning.
Boy. Good grandfire, leave these bitter, deep, la-

ments ;
Make my Aunt merry with some pleasing tale.

Mar. Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov'd, Doth weep to see his grandfire'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 heart ; Mine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny:

A deed


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