Sivut kuvina

Aar. My gracious Lord, here is the Bag of Gold.

Sat. Two of thy Whelps, fell Curs, of bloody kind
Have here bereft my Brother of his Life: [To Titus.
Sirs, drag them from the Pit unto the Prison,
There let them bide until we have devis'd
Some never heard-of torturing pain for them.

Tam. What are they in this Pit?
Oh wondrous thing!
How easily Murder is discovered?

Tit. High Emperor, upon my feeble Knee,
I beg this boon, with tears not lightly ihed,
That this fell fault of my accursed Sons,
Accursed, if the faults be prov'd in them

Sar. If it be provid? you see it is apparent. Who found this Letter, I amora, was it you?

Tam. Andronicus himself did take it up.

Tit. I did, my Lord,
Yet let me be their Bail.
For by my Father's reverend Tomb I vow
They shall be ready at your Highness Will,
To answer their Suspicion with their lives.

Sat. Thou shalt not bail them, see thou follow me :
Some bring the murther'd Body, fome the Murtherers,
Let them not speak a word, the Guilt is plain,
For by my Soul, were there worse end than Death,
That end upon them should be executed.

Tam. Andronicus, I will intreat the King,
Fear not thy Sons, they shall do well enough.

Tit. Come, Lucius, come, Stay not to talk with them.

[Excunt. Enter Demetrius and Chiron, with Lavinia, ber Hands

cut off, and her Tongue cut out, and ravisid. Dem. So now go tell, and if thy Tongue can speak, Who 'twas that cur thy Tongue and ravish'd thee.

Chi. Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning for And, if thy Scumps will let thee, play the Scribe.

Dem. See how with signs and tokens she can scowl.

Chi. Go home,
Call for sweet Water, wash thy hands.

Dem. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash; And so let's leave her to her Glent Walks.

Chi. And 'ewere my Cause, I should go hang my self. Dem. If thou had'st Hands to help thee knit the Cord. t

[Exeun. Wind Horns. Enter Marcus from Hunting, to Lavinia.

Mar. Who is this, my Niece, that Aies away so faft? Cousin, a Word, where is your Husband ? If I do Dream, would all my Wealth would wake me; If I do wake, fome Planet strike me down, That I may flumber in eternal Sleep. Speak, gentle Niece, what stern ungentle Hands Hath lop'd and hew'd, and made thy Body bare Of her two Branches, those sweet Ornaments, Whose circling Shadows Kings have sought to sleep in, And might not gain so great a Happiness, As half thy Love ! Why do'st not speak to me? Alas, a crimson River of warm Blood, Like to a bubling Fountain stirr'd with Wind, Doth rise and fall between thy rosy Lips, Coming and going with thy Honey Breath. But sure some Terens hath deflour'd thee, And left thou should'st dete& him, cut thy Tongue, Ah, now thou turn'st away thy Face for Shame! And notwithstanding all this loss of Blood, As from a Conduit with their issuing Spouts, Yet do thy Cheeks look red as Titan's Face, Blushing to be encountred with a Cloud, Shall I speak for thee? Shall I say, 'tis so? Oh that I knew thy Heart, and knew the Beast, That I might rail at him to ease my mind. Sorrow concealed, like an Oven stopt, Doth burn the Heart to Cindars where it is. Fair Philomela, the but lost her Tongue, And in a tedious Sampler sev!ed her mind. But lovely Niece, that mean is cut from thec, A craftier Terens hast thou met 'withall, And he hath cut those pretty Fingers off That could have better fewed than Philomel. Oh had the Monster seen those Lilly Hands Tremble like Aspen Leaves upon a Lute, And make the filken Strings delight to kiss them, He would not then have touch'd them for his Life.


Or had he heard the heavenly Harmony,
Which that sweet Tongue hath made;
He would have dropt his Knife and fell asleep,
As Cerberus at the Thracian Poet's feet.
Come, let us go, and make thy Father blind,
For fuch a fight will blind a Father's Eye.
One hours Storm will drown the fragrant Meads,
What will whole Months of Tears thy Father's Eyes?
Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee:
Oh could our mourning ease thy Misery. [Exeunt.

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AC T II. SCENE I. Enter the Judges and Senators, with Marcus and Quineus

bound, passing on the Stage to the place of Execution, and Ti

tus going before, pleading. T'.

Ear me, grave Fathers, noble Tribunes stay,

For pity of mine Age, whose Youth was spent
In dangerous Wars, whilst you securely slept:
For all my Blood in Rome's great Qarrel shed,
For all the frosty Nights that I have watcht,
And for these bitter Tears, which now you see
Filling the aged wrinkles in my Cheeks,
Be pitiful to my condemned Sons,
Whose Souls are not corrupted, as 'tis thought:
For two and twenty Sons I never wept,
Because they died in Honour's lofty Bed.

[Andronicus lieth down, and the Judges pass by him.
For there, these, Tribunes, in the Dust I write
My Hearr's deep Languor, and my Soul's fad Tears:
Let my Tears ftanch the Earth's dry Appetite,
My Sons (weet Blood will make it shame and blush:
o Earth! I will befriend thee more with Rain, [Exeunt.
That shall distil from these two ancient Ruins,
Than youthful April shall with all her Showers
In Summer's drought : I'll drop upon thee still,
In Winter with warm Tears I'll melt the Snow,
And keep eternal Spring-time on thy Face,
So thou refuse to drink my dear Son's Blood.
Vol. IV.



Enter Lucius with his Sword drawn,
Oh Reverend Tribunes! gentle aged Men!.
Unbird my Sons, reverie che doom of Death,
And let me say (that rever wept before)
My Tears are now prevailing Orators.

Luc. Oh, Noble Father, you lament in vain,
The Tribunes hear you not, no Man is by,
And you recount your Sorrows to a Stone.

Tit. Ah Lucius, for thy Brothers let me pleadGrave Tribunes, once more I intreat of you

Luc. My gracious Lord, no Tribune hears you speak. Tit. Why, 'tis no matter, Man; if they did hear, They would not maik me: Or if they did hear, They would not picy me. Therefore I tell my Sorrows bootless to the Stones, Who, cho' they cannot answer my Distress, Yet in some fort they are better than the Tribunes, For that they will not intercept ny Tale; When I do weep, they humbly at my Feet Receive my Tears, and seem to weep with me; And were they but atrired in grave Weeds, Rome could afford no Tribune like to these. A Stone is as soft Wax, Tribunes more hard than Stones : A Stone is filent, and offendeth not, And Tribunes with their Tongues doom Men to death. But wherefore stand'lt thou with thy Weapon drawn?

Luc. Torescue my two Brothers from their Death, For which attempt, the Judges/have pronounc'd My everlasting doom of Banishment.

Tit. O happy Man, they have befriended thee:
Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive,
That Rome is but a Wilderness of Tygers?
Tygers must prey, and Rome affords no prey
But me and mine; how happy art thou then,
From these Devourers to be banished?
But who comes with our Brother Marcus here?

Enter Marcus and Layitia.
Mar. Titus, prepare thy Noble Eyes to weep,
Or if not so, thy Noble Heart to break:
I bring consuming Sorrow to thine Age.

Tit. Will it consume me? Let me see it thren.
Mar. This was thy Daughter.
Tit. Why, Marcus, so she is.
Luc. Ah me, this Obje& kills me.

Tit. Faint-hearted Boy, arise and look upon her;
Speak my Lavinia, what accursed Hand
Hath made thee handless in thy Father's sight?
What Fool hath added Water to the Sea?
Or brought a Faggot to bright-burning Troy?
My Grief was at the heighth before thou cam'st,
And now like Nilus it disdaineth bounds:
Give me a Sword, I'll chop off my Hands too,
For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain:
And they have nurs'd this woe, in feeding Life:
In bootless Prayer have they been held up,
And they have serv’d me to effectless use.
Now all the Service I require of them,
Is, that the one will help to cut the other:
'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou haft no Hands,
For Hands to do Rome Service are but vain.

Luc. Speak, gentle Sister, who hath martyr'd thee?
Mar. O that delightful Engine

of her Thoughts,
That blab’d them with such pleasing Eloquence,
Is torn from forth that pretty hollow Cage,
Where like a sweet melodious Bird it fung,
Sweet various Notes inchanting every Ear.

. Oh say chou for her,
Who hath done this Deed?

Mar. Oh thus I found her ftraying in the Park,
Seeking to hide her self, as doth the Decr
That hath receiv'd fome unrecuring Wound.

Tit. It was my Deer,
And he that wounded her
Hath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead:
For now I stand, as one opon a Rock,
Environ'd with a Wilderness of Sea,
Who makse the waxing Tide grow Wave by Wave,
Expe&ting ever when some envious Surge
Will in his brinish Bowels swallow him.

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