Tit. Give Signs, fweet Girl, for here are none but Friends, What Roman Lord it was durft do the deed; Or funk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst, That left the Camp to fin in Lucrece Bed? Mar. Sit down, fweet Neece; Biother, fit down by me, Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury, Inspire 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 canst, Curft be that Heart that forc'd us to this fhift! and Writes. Tit. Oh do you read, my Lord, what she hath writ? Stuprum, Chiron, Demetrius. Mar. What, what! the luftful Sons of Tamora, Performers of this hateful bloody deed? Tit. Magni Dominator Poli, Tam lentus audis fcelera! tam lentus vides! Mar. Oh calm thee, gentle Lord; although I know Tit. 'Tis fure enough, and you knew how. She's Ran mad through forrow, that made me to fear; I will moft willingly attend your Ladyship. Tit. How now, Lavinia? Marcus,what means this? Why lifts the up her Arms in fequence thus ? Mar, I think the mears that there was more than one Mar. For love of her that's gone, Perhaps the cull'd it from among the reft. Tit. Soft! fee how bufily fhe turns the Leaves! Help her: What would the find? Lavinia, fhall I read? This is the tragick Tale of Philomel, And treats of Tereus Treafon and his Rape; And Rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy. Mar. See, Brother, fec, note how the quores the Leaves, Tit. Lavinia, wert thou thus furpriz'd, fweet Girl, Ravish'd and wrong'd, as Philomela was, Forc'd in the ruthlefs, vaft, and gloomy Woods? See, fee; Ay, fuch a P ace there is, where we did hunt, (O had we never never hunted there) Pattern'd by that the Poet here defcribes, By Nature made for Murders and for Rapes. Mar. O hy should Nature build fo foul a Den, Unless the Gods delight in Tragedies? Tit. Give Signs, fweet Girl, for here are none but Friends, What Roman Lord it was durft do the deed; Or funk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erft, That left the Camp to fin in Lucrece Bed? Mar. Sit down, fweet Neece; Brother, fit down by me, Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury, Inspire me, that I may this Treason find. He writes his Name with his Staff, and guides it with his Feet and Mouth. This fandy Plot is plain, guide, if thou canft, Curft be that Heart that forc'd us to this fhift! and Writes. Tit. Oh do you read, my Lord, what she hath writ? Stuprum, Chiron, Demetrius. Mar. What,what! the luftful Sons of Tamora, Performers of this hateful bloody deed? Tit. Magni Dominator Poli, Tam lentus audis fcelera! tam lentus vides! Mar. Oh calm thee, gentle Lord; although I know She's She's with the Lion deeply ftill in League, And with a Gad of Steel will write thefe Words, Boy. And, Uncle, fo will I, and if I live. Come, come, thou'lt do my Meffage, wilt thou not? Boy. Ay, with my Dagger in their Bofom, Grandfire. Tit. No, Boy, not fo, I'll teach thee another Course, Lavinia, come; Marcus, look to my House, Lucius and I'll go brave it at the Court, Ay, marry will we, Sir, and we'll be waited on. [Exeunt. Marcus attend him in his Extafie, That hath more Scars of Sorrow in his Heart, Than Foe-mens Marks upon his batter'd Shield, [Exit. Enter Aaron, Chiron, and Demetrius at one Door: And at another Door young Lucius and another, with a bundle of Weapons, and Verfes writ upon them. Chi. Demetrius, here's the Son of Lucius, He hath fome Meffage to deliver us. Aar. Ay, fome mad Meffage from his mad Grandfather, I greet your Honours from Andronicus, And pray the Roman Gods confound you both. Dem. Dem. Gramercy lovely Lucius, what's the News? Boy. For Villains mark'd with Rape. May it please you, My Grandfire well advis'd hath fent by me, The goodliest Weapons of his Armory, To gratifie your honourable Youth, The hope of Rome, for fo he bad me fay: And fo I do, and with his Gifts present Your Lordships, when ever you have need, You may be armed and appointed well, And fo I leave you both, like bloody Villains. [Exit. Dem. What's here, a Scrole, and written round about? Integer vita fcelerifque purus, non eget Mauri jaculis nec arcu. I read it in the Grammar long ago. Aar. Ay juft, a Verfe in Horace--right, you have it---Now what a thing it is to be an Afs? Here's no found Jeft, th' old Man hath found their Guilt, Aar. Had he not reafon, Lord Demetrius? Aar. Here lacks but your Mother for to fay, Amen. Aar. Pray to the Devils, the Gods have given us over. Flourish. Dem. |