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, Now let me fhow 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 ufe the ax. [Exe. 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 fay, ere half an hour pass.

[Afide.

[He cuts off Titus's hand.

Enter Lucius and Marcus again.

Tit. Now ftay your ftrife; what fhall be, is dispatch'd: Good Aaron, give his Majefty 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 fons, fay, I account of them As jewels purchas'd at an eafy price; And yet dear too, because I bought mine own. Aar. I go, 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 foul 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 ftain the fun with fogs, as fometime clouds,
When they do hug him in their melting bofoms.
Mar. Oh! brother, fpeak with posibilities,

L 2

And

And do not break into these deep extremes.
Tit. Is not my forrow deep, having no bottom ?
Then be my paffions bottomlefs with them.
Mar. But yet let reafon govern thy lament.
Tit. If there were reafon for these miseries,
Then into limits could I bind my woes.

face?

When heav'n doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow ?
If the winds rage, doth not the fea wax mad,
Threatning the welkin with his big-fwol'n
And wilt thou have a reason for this coil?
I am the fea; hark, how her fighs do blow;
She is the weeping welkin, I the earth;
Then must my fea 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,
Bút, like a drunkard, muft I vomit them ;
Then give me leave, for lofers will have leave
To eafe their ftomachs with their bitter tongues.
Enter a Meffenger, bringing in two heads and a hand.
Mef. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repay'd
For that good hand thou fent'ft the Emperor;
Here are the heads of thy two noble fons,
And here's thy hand in fcorn to thee sent back;
Thy grief's their sport, thy refolution mockt:
That woe is me to think upon thy woes,
More than remembrance of my father's death.
Mar. Now let hot Ætna cool in Sicily,

[Exit.

And be my heart an ever-burning hell;
These miferies are more than may be borne!
To weep with them that weep doth eafe fome deal,
But forrow flouted at is double death.

Luc. Ah, that this fight fhould make so deep a wound,

And yet detefted life not fhrink thereat;

That ever death fhould let life bear his name,
Where life hath no more intereft but to breathe.

Mar. Alas, poor heart, that kifs is comfortless,

As frozen water to a ftarved snake.

Tit When will this fearful flumber have an end?

Mar.

1

Mar. Now, farewel, flattery! die, Andronicus;
Thou doft not flumber; fee, thy two fons heads,
Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here;
Thy other banish'd fon with this dear fight
Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother I,
Even like a ftony image, cold and numb.
Ah, now no more will I controul thy griefs; (18)
Rend off thy filver hair, thy other hand
Gnawing with thy teeth, and be this difmal fight
The clofing up of your moft wretched eyes;
Now is a time to ftorm, 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;
Befides, this forrow is an enemy,

And would ufurp upon my watry eyes,
And make them blind with tributary tears;
Then which way fhall I find revenge's cave?
For these two heads do feem to fpeak to me,
And threat me, I fhall never come to blifs,
"Till all these mifchiefs 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 fwear unto my foul 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 employ'd in these things;
Bear thou my hand, fweet wench, between thy teeth;
As for thee, boy, go get thee from my fight,
Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay.
Hie to the Goths, and raife an army there;
And if you love me, as I think you do,

Let's kifs and part, for we have much to do. [Exeunt.

(18) Ab, now no more will I controul my griefs;] I read, thy griefs. Marcus had before perfuaded Titus to be temperate and restrain the excess of his forrows: but now, fays be, that fo miferable an object is prefented to your fight as a dear daughter so heinously abus'd, e'en indulge your forrows till they put an end to your miferable life.

Manet Lucius.

Luc. Farewel, Andronicus, my noble father,
The woeful'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 hast 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.

SCENE, an Apartment in Titus's House.

A Banquet.

Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and young Lucius, a Boy.

O, fo, now fit; and look, you eat no more

Tit. Sor

Than will preserve juft so much strength in us,
As will revenge thefe bitter woes of ours.
Marcus, unknit that forrow-wreathen knot;
Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands,
And cannot paffionate 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 with mifery,
Beats in this hollow prifon of my flesh,

Then thus I thump it down.

Thou map

of woe, that thus doft talk in figns! When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating, Thou canst not ftrike it thus to make it fill; Wound it with fighing, girl, kill it with groans; Or get fome 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 fink, and foaking in,

Drown

Drown the lamenting fool in fea-falt tears.

Mar. Fie, brother, fie, teach her not thus to lay Such violent hands upon her tender life.

Tit. How now! has forrow made thee doat already?
Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I;
What violent hands can fhe lay on her life?
Ah, wherefore doft thou urge the name of hands,-
To bid Eneas tell the tale twice o'er,

How Troy was burnt, and he made miferable?
O, handle not the theam; no talk of hands,-
Left we remember ftill, that we have none.
Fie, fie, how frantickly I fquare 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 fhe fays,
I can interpret all her martyr'd figns;

She fays, the drinks no other drink but tears,
Brew'd with her forrows, mesh'd upon her cheeks.
Speechlefs complaint!-O, I will learn thy thought,
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect,

As begging hermits in their holy prayers.

Thou shalt not figh, nor hold thy ftumps to heav'n,
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 thy meaning.
Boy. Good grand fire, leave these bitter deep laments;
Make my aunt merry with fome pleafing tale.
Mar. Alas, the tender boy, in paffion mov'd,
Doth weep to fee his grandfire's heavinefs.

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

[Marcus frikes the dish with a knife. What doft thou ftrike at, Marcus, with thy knife? Mar. At that that I have kill'd, my Lord, a fly. Tit. Out on thee, murderer; thou kill'ft my heart, Mine 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.

La 4

Mar.