And just against thy heart make thou a hole;
That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall,
May run into that fink, and foaking in,
Drown the lamenting fool in fea-falt tears.

Mar. Fye, brother, fye! teach her not thus to lay Such violent hands upon her tender life.

Tit. How now! has forrow made thee doat al-
ready?

Why, Marcus, no man fhould be mad but I.
What violent hands can fhe lay on her life?
Ah, wherefore doft thou urge the name of hands;-
To bid Æneas tell the tale twice o'er,
How Troy was burnt, and he made miferable?
O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands;
Left we remember ftill, that we have none.-
Fye, fye, how frantickly I fquare my talk!
As if we fhould 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 the fays;-
I can interpret all her martyr'd figns ;-

T

She fays, the drinks no other drink but tears,
Brew'd with her forrows, mesh'd upon her cheeks:-
Speechlefs complainer, I will learn thy thought;
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect,
As begging hermits in their holy prayers:
Thou fhalt not figh, nor hold thy ftumps to heaven,
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a fign,
But I, of thefe, will wreft an alphabet,

And, by still practice, learn to know the meaning
Boy. Good grandfire, leave these bitter deep la-

ments;

Make my aunt merry with some pleafing tale.

E 3

Mar

Mar. Alas, the tender boy in paffion mov'd, Doth weep to fee his grandfire's heaviness.

Tit. Peace, tender fapling; thou art made of tears, And tears will quickly melt thy life away.

[MARCUS ftrikes the Difh with a Knife. What doft 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; Minè eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny: A deed of death, done on the innocent, Becomes not Titus' brother; Get thee gone; I fee, thou art not for my company.

Mar. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly. Tit. But how, if that fly had a father and mother? How would he hang his flender 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 kill'd him.

Mar. Pardon me, fir; it was a black ill-favour'd fly,

Like to the emperefs' Moor; therefore I kill'd him. Tit. 0, 0, 0,

Then pardon me for reprehending thee,

For thou haft done a charitable deed.
Give me thy knife, I will infult 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, firrah!-yet I think we are not brought fo low.
But that, between us, we can kill a fly,

That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.

Mar.

Mar. Alas, poor man! grief has fo wrought on him,

He takes falfe fhadows for true fubftances.

Tit. Come, take away.-Lavinia, go with me: I'll to thy closet; and go read with thee Sad ftories, chanced in the times of old.Come, boy, and go with me; thy fight is young, And thou shalt read, when mine begins to dazzle. [Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I. TITUS's Houfe.

Enter young LUCIUS, and LAVINIA running after him; and the Boy flies from her, with his Books under his Arm. Enter TITUS and MARCUS.

Boy.

HELP, grandfire, help! my aunt Lavinia Follows me every where, I know not why :Good uncle Marcus, fee how fwift fhe comes! Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean. Mar. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine

aunt,

Tit. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm.

Boy. Ah, when my father was in Rome, fhe did. Mar. What means my niece Lavinia by these figns?

Tit. Fear her not, Lucius :-Somewhat doth

fhe mean:

See,

See, Lucius, fee, how much fhe makes of thee:
Somewhither would the have you go with her.
Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care
Read to her fons, than fhe hath read to thee,
Sweet poetry, and Tully's oratory.

Canft thou not guefs wherefore the plies thee thus?
Boy. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,
Unless fome fit of phrenzy do poffefs her:
For I have heard my grandfire fay full oft,
Extremity of griefs would make men mad;
And I have read, that Hecuba of Troy
Ran mad through forrow; 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;
Caufelefs, perhaps : But pardon me, fweet aunt:
And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,

I will moft willingly attend your ladyship.
Mar. Lucius, I will.

Tit. How now, Lavinia?-Marcus, what means
Some book there is that the defires to fee :- [this?
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 fo beguile thy forrow, 'till the heavens
Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed.—
Why lifts the up her arms in fequence thus?
Mar. I think, fhe means, that there was more
than one

Confederate in the fact;-Ay, more there was:Or elfe to heaven fhe heaves them for revenge.

Tit. Lucius, what book is that the toffeth fo?

Boy

Boy. Grandfire, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphorfis; My mother gave it me.

Mar. For love of her that's gone;

Perhaps the cull'd it from among the rest.

Tit. Soft! foft, how bufily fhe turns the leaves! Help her: What would fhe find? Lavinia, fhall I This is the tragic tale of Philomel,

[read? And treats of Tereus' treason, and his rape; And rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy. Mar. See, brother, fee; note, how the quotes the leaves.

Tit. Lavinia, wert thou thus furpris'd, fweet girl, Ravifh'd, and wrong'd, as Philomela was, Forc'd in the ruthlefs, vaft, and gloomy woods? See, fee!

Ay, fuch 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 murders; and for rapes.

Mar. O, why fhould nature build fo foul a den, Unless the gods delight in tragedies!

Tit. Give figns, fweet girl,-for here are none but friends,

What Roman lord it was durft do the deed:

Or flunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erft,
That left the camp to fin in Lucrece' bed?

Mar. Sit down, sweet niece :-brother, fit down

Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,

[by me:Infpire me, that I may this treafon find!My lord, look here;-look here, Lavinia:

[He writes his Name with his Staff, and guides it with his Feet and Mouth.

This fandy plot is plain; guide, if thou can'ft, This after me, when I have writ my name

Without