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Behold the poor remains alive and dead! yen!
These that Survive, let Rome reward with Love'; 175 % !T
These that I bring unto their latest Home,
With burial among their Ancestors.
Here Goths have given me leave to sheath my Sword: *3!
Titus unkind, and careless of thine own,
Why suffer'st thou thy Sons unburied yet,

1 To hover on the dreadful Shoar of Styx?

7,Make way to lay them by their Brethren.

T

[They open the Tomb.
There greet in silence, as the dead are wont,
And sleep in Peace, llain in your country's Wars:
O sacred Receptacle of my Joys,
Sweet Cell of Virtue and Nobility,
How many Sons of mine hast thou in store,
That thou wilt never render to me more?

Luc. Give us the proudest Prisoner of the Goths,
That we may hew his Limbs, and on a Pile,
Ad manes Fratrum, Sacrifice his Flesh,'
Before this Earthly Prison of their Bones,
That so the Shadows be not unappeas'd,
Nor we disturbid with Prodigies on Earth.

Tit. I give him you, the noblest that survives,
The Eldeit Son of this distressed Queen.

Tam. Stay, Roman Brethren, gracious Conqueror,
Vi&orious Titus, rue the Tears I thed,
A Mother's Tears in Passion for her Son ;
And if thy Sons were ever dear to thee,
Oh think my Sons to be as dear to me.
Sufficeth not, that we are brought to Rome,
To beautifie thy Triumphs, and return
Captive to thee, and to thy Roman Yoak;
But must my Sons be slaughter'd in the Streets,
For Valiant doings in their Country's Cause?
O! if to fight for King and Commor-weal,
Were Piety in thine, it is in these :
Andronicus, stain not thy Tomb with Blood,
Wilt thou draw near the nature of the Gods?
Draw near them then in being merciful;
Sweet Mercy is Nobility's true badge,
Thrice Noble Tjtus, spare my firl-born Son.

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Tit. Patient your self, Madam, and" pardon me,
Thule are the Brechren, whom you Goths behold
Alive and dead, and for their Brethren slain,
Religiously they ask a Sacrifice ; ";
To this your Son is markt, and die he muft,
To appease their groaning Shadows that are gone.

Luc. Away with him, and make a Fire straight.
And with our Swords upon a Pile of Wood,
Let's hew his Limbs 'till they be clean consumid.
[Exeunt Murius, Marcus, Quintus and Lucius with Alarbus,

Tam. O cruel irreligious Piety!
Chi. Was ever Scythia half so barbarous?

Dem. Oppose me, Scythia, to ambitious Rome.
Alarbus go to rest, and we survive,
To tremble under Titus's threatning Looks,
Then, Madam, stand resolvd, but hope withal,
The self-fame Gods that arm'd the Queen of Troy,
With opportunity of sharp Revenge
Upon the Thracian Tyrant in his Tent,
May favour Tamora, the Queen of Goths,
(When Goths were Goths, and Tamora was Queen)
To quit her bloody Wrongs upon her Foes.

Enter Mutius, Marcus, Quintus and Lucius,
Luc. See, Lord and Father, how we have perform'd
Our Roman Rires, Alarbus's Limbs are lopt,
And Intrals feed the sacrificing Fire,
Whose Smoke, like Incense, doth perfume the Sky.
Remaineth nought but to inter our Brethren,
And with loud Larums welcome them to Rome.

Tit. Let it be so, and let Andronicus
'Make this his latest farewel to their Souls.

[Then found Trumpets, and lay the Coffins in the Tomb, In Peace and Honour rest you here, my Sons, Rome's readiest Champions, repose you here in rest, Secure from worldly Chances and Mishaps : Here lurks no Treason, here no Envy (wells, Here grow no damned Grudges, here no Storms, No Noise, but Silence and eternal Sleep : In Peace and Honour rest you here, my Sons,

Enter

Behold the poor remains alive and dead!..-, !:!
These that Survive, let Rome reward with Love ; ;
These that I bring unto their latest Home,
With burial among their Ancestors.
Here Goths have given me leave to sheath my Sword:
Titus unkind, and careless of thine own,
Why suffer'st thou thy Sons unburied yet,
To hover on the dreadful Shoar of Styx'?
Make way to lay them by their Brethren.

[They open the Tomb.
There greet in silence, as the dead are wont,
And sleep in Peace, Nain in your Country's Wars:
O sacred Receptacle of my Joys,
Sweer Cell of Virtue and Nobility,
How many Sons of mine hast thou in store,
That thou wilt never render to me more?

Luc. Give us the proudest Prisoncr of the Gotlys,
That we may hew his Limbs, and on a Pile,
Ad manes Fratrum, Sacrifice his Flesh,
Before this Earthly Prison of their Bones,
That so the Shadows be not unappeasid,
Nor-we disturbid with Prodigies on Larch.

Tir. I give him you, the noblest tbat survives,
The Eldeit Son of this distrelled Queen.

Tam. Sray, Roman Brethren, gracious Conqueror
Vi&orious Titus, rue the Tears I thed,
A Mother's Tears in Passion for her Son ;
And if thy Sons were ever dear to thee,
Oh think my Sons to be as dear to me.
Sufficeth not, that we are brought to Rome,
To beautifie thy Triumphs, and return
Caprive to thee, and to thy Roman Yoak;
But must my Sons be slaughter'd in the Streets,
For Valiant doings in their Country's Cause?
O! if to fight for King and Commor.-weal

,
Were Piety in thine, it is in these :
Andronicus, stain not thy Tomb with Blood,
Wilt thou draw near the nature of the Gods?
Diaw near them then in being merciful;
Sweet Mercy is Nobility's true badge,
Thrice Noble Tjous, spare my firl-born Son.

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Tit. Patient your self, Madam, and pardon me,
Thcte are the Brechren, whom you Goths behold
Alive and dead, and for their Brethren flain,
Religiously they ask a Sacrifice ;
To this your Son is markt, and die he must,
To appease their groaning Shadows that are gone.

Luc. Away with him, and make a Fire straight.
And with our Swords upon a Pile of Wood,
Let's hew his Limbs 'till they be clean consumid.
[Exeunt Mucius, Marcus, Quintus and Lucius with Alarbus,

Tam. O cruel irreligious Piety!
Chi. Was ever Scythia half so barbarous?

Dem. Oppose me, Scythia, to ambitious Rome.
Alarbus go to rest, and we suriive,
To tremble under Titus's threatning Looks,
Then, Madam, stand refolv’d, but hope withal,
The self-fame Gods that arm'd the Queen of Troy,
With opportunity of sharp Revenge
Upon the Thracian Tyrant in his Tent,
May favour Tamora, the Queen of Goths,
(When Goths were Goths, and Tamora was Queen)
To quit her bloody Wrongs upon her Foes.

Enter Mutius, Marcus, Quintus and Lucius.
Luc. See, Lord and Father, how we have perform'd
Our Roman Rires, Alarbus's Limbs are lopt,
And Intrals feed the sacrificing Fire,
Whose Smoke, like Incense, doth perfume the Sky,
Remaineth nought but to inter our Brethren,
And with loud Larums welcome them to Rome.

Tit. Let it be fo, and let Andronicus
Make this his latest farewel to their Souls.

[Then found Trumpets, and lay the Coffins in the Tomb, In Peace and Hanour rest you here, my Sons, Rome's readiest Champions, repose you here in rest, Secure from worldly Chances and Mishaps : Here lurks no Treason, here no Envy swells, Here grow no damned Grudges, here no Storms, No Noise, but Silence and eternal Sleep : In Peace and Honour rest you here, my Sons,

Enter

Enter Lavinia,
Lav. In Peace and Honour live Lord Titus long,
My Noble Lord and Father, live in Fame:
Lo at this Tomb my tributary Tears,
I render, for my Brethrens Obsequies;
And at thy Feet I kneel, with Tears of Joy,
Shed on the Earth, for thy return to Rome.
O bless me here with thy vi&orious Hand,
Whose Fortune Rome's best Citizens applaud.

Tit. Kind Rome,
That hast thus lovingly reserv'd
The Cordial of mine Age, to glad mine Heart,
Lavinia, live, out-live thy Father's Days;
And Fame's eternal date for Virtue's praise.

Mar. Long live Lord Titus, my beloved Brother,
Gracious Triumpher in the Eyes of Rome.

Tit. Thanks, gentle Tribune,
Noble Brother Marcus.

Mar. And welcome Nephews from successful Wars,
You that survive, and you that sleep in Fame:
Fair Lords, your Fortunes are alike in all,

That in your Country's Service drew your Swords.
But safer Triumph is this Funeral Pomp
That hath aspir'd to Solon's Happiness,
And triumphs over Chance in Honour's Bed.
Titus Andronicus, the People of Rome,
Whose Friend in Justice thou hast ever been,
Send chee by me their Tribune, and their trust,
This Palliament of white and spotless Hue,
And name thee in Election for the Empire,
With these our late deceased Emperor's Sons :
Be Candidatus then, and put it on,
And help to set a Head on headless Rome.

Tit. A better Head her Glorious Body fits,
Than his that shakes for Age and Feebleness: ,
What should I don this Robe, and trouble you?
Be chose with Proclamations to Day,
To Morrow yield up Rule, refign my Life,
And let abroach new Business for you all.
Rome, I have been thy Soldier forty Years,
And led my. Country's Strength successfully,

And

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