Not far, one Muliteus lives, my country-man,
His wife but yefternight was brought to bed,
His child is like to her, fair as you are :
Go pack with him, and give the mother gold,
And tell them both the circumstance of all;
And how by this their child fhall be advanc'd,
And be received for the Emp'ror's heir,
And fubftituted in the place of mine,

To calm this tempeft whirling in the court;
And let the Emperor dandle him for his own.
Hark ye, my Lords, ye fee, I have given her phyfick;
And you must needs beftow her funeral;

The fields are near, and you are gallant grooms:
This done, fee, that you take no longer days,
But fend the midwife prefently to me.

The midwife and the nurfe well made away,
Then let the Ladies tattle what they please.
Chi. Aaron, I fee thou wilt not trust the air
With fecrets.

Dem. For this care of Tamora,

Herfelf and hers are highly bound to thee.

[Exeunt.

Aar. Now to the Goths, as fwift as swallow flies,

There to difpofe this treasure in my arms,
And fecretly to greet the Emprefs' friends.
Come on, you thick-lip'd flave, I bear you hence,
For it is you, that put us to our shifts:
I'll make you feed on berries, and on roots,
And feed on curds and whey, and fuck the goat,
And cabin in a cave, and bring you up

To be a warrior, and command a camp.

[Exit.

SCENE, a Street near the Palace.

Enter Titus, old Marcus, young Lucius, and other Gentlemen with bows; and Titus bears the arrows with letters on the end of them.

•CO

Tit. Ome, Marcus, come; kinfmen, this is the way.
Sir boy, now let me fee your archery.
Look, ye draw home enough, and 'tis there ftraight;
Terras Afraa reliquit-be you remember'd, Marcus-

She's

She's gone, fhe's fled-Sirs, take you to your tools; You, coufins, fhall go found the ocean,

And caft your nets; haply, you may find her in the fea,
Yet there's as little justice as at land-

No, Publius and Sempronius; you must do it,
"Tis you must dig with mattock and with spade,
And pierce the inmoft center of the earth:
Then, when you come to Pluto's region,
I pray you deliver this petition,

Tell him, it is for juftice, and for aid;
And that it comes from old Andronicus,
Shaken with forrows in ungrateful Rome.
Ah, Rome!-Well, well, I made thee miferable,
What time I threw the people's fuffrages
On him, that thus doth tyrannize o'er me.
Go, get you gone, and, pray, be careful all,
And leave you not a man of war unfearch'd;
This wicked Emperor may have ship'd her hence,
And, kinfmen, then we may go pipe for justice.
Mar. Oh Publius, is not this a heavy cafe,
To fee thy noble uncle thus distract?

Pub. Therefore, my Lord, it highly us concerns,
By day and night t' attend him carefully:
And feed his humour kindly as we may,
'Till time beget fome careful remedy.

Mar. Kinfmen, his forrows are paft remedy.
Join with the Goths, and with revengeful war
Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude,
And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine.

Tit. Publius, how now? how now, my mafters,
What, have you met with her?

If

Pub. No, my good Lord, but Pluto fends you word, you will have revenge from hell, you shall:

Marry, for juftice, fhe is fo employ'd,

He thinks, with Jove in heav'n, or fomewhere elfe;

So that perforce you must needs ftay a time.

Tit. He doth me wrong to feed me with delays.
I'll dive into the burning lake below,
And pull her out of Acheron by th' heels.
Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we,

No

No big-bon'd men, fram'd of the Cyclops fize;
But metal, Marcus, fteel to th' very back;

Yet wrung with wrongs, more than our backs can bear.
And fith there's no justice in earth nor hell,
We will follicit heav'n, and move the gods,
To find down juftice for to wreak our wrongs:
Come, to this gear; you're a good archer, Marcus.
[He gives them the arrows.
Ad Jovem, that's for you-here, ad Appolinem-
Ad Martem, that's for myself;

Here, boy, to Pallas-here, to Mercury
To Saturn and to Calus-not to Saturnine-
You were as good to shoot against the wind.
To it, boy; Marcus-loofe when I bid:
Of my word I have written to effect,
There's not a god left unfollicited.

Mar. Kinfmen, fhoot all your fhafts into the court, We will afflict the Emperor in his pride.

[They foot. Tit. Now, mafters, draw; oh, well faid, Lucius:

Good boy, in Virgo's lap, give it Pallas.

Mar. My Lord, I am a mile beyond the moon; Your letter is with Jupiter by this.

Tit. Ha, ha, Publius, Publius, what haft thou done? See, fee, thou'ft shot off one of Taurus' horns.

Mar. This was the fport, my Lord; when Publius fhot, The bull being gall'd, gave Aries fuch a knock, That down fell both the ram's horns in the court, And who should find them, but the Emprefs' villain: She laugh'd, and told the Moor, he fhould not chufe But give them to his master for a prefent.

Tit. Why, there it goes. God give your Lordship joy!

Enter a Clown with a basket and two pigeons. News, news from heav'n; Marcus, the poft is come. Sirrah, what tidings? have you any letters? Shall I have juftice, what fays Jupiter?

Clow. Who? the gibbet-maker? he fays, that he hath taken them down again, for the man must not be hang'd till the next week.

Tit. Tut, what fays Jupiter, I ask thee?

Clory.

Clow. Alas, Sir, I know not Jupiter, I never drank with him in all my life.

Tit. Why, villain, art not thou the carrier? Clow. Ay, of my pigeons, Sir, nothing else. Tit. Why, didft thou not come from heav'n? Clow. From heav'n? alas, Sir, I never came there. God forbid, I fhould be fo bold to prefs into heav'n in my young days. Why, I am going with my pigeons to the tribunal plebs, to take up a matter of brawl betwixt my uncle and one of the Emperial's men.

Mar. Why, Sir, that is as fit as can be to ferve for your oration, and let him deliver the pigeons to the Emperor from you.

Tit. Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the Emperor with a grace?

Clow. Nay, truly, Sir, I could never fay grace in allTM my life.

Tit. Sirrah, come hither, make no more ado,

But give your pigeons to the Emperor.

By me thou shalt have juftice at his hands.

Hold, hold--mean while here's money for thy charges.
Give me a pen and ink.

Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver a supplication ?
Clow. Ay, Sir.

Tit. Then here is a fupplication for you: and when you come to him, at the firft approach you must kneel, then kifs his foot, then deliver up your pigeons, and then look for your reward. I'll be at hand, Sir; fee, you do it bravely.

Clow. I warrant you, Sir, let me alone.

Tit. Sirrah, haft thou a knife? come, let me fee it. Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration,

For thou haft made it like an humble fuppliant;

And when thou haft given it the Emperor,
Knock at my door, and tell me what he fays.
Clow. God be with you, Sir, I will.

Tit. Come, Marcus, let us go. Publius, follow me.

[Exeunt.

SCENE,

SCENE, the Palace.

Enter Emperor and Empress, and her two fons; the Emperor brings the arrows in his hand, that Titus fhot.

Sat. W
WHY!

7HY, Lords,whatwrongs are thefe?was everseen An Emperor of Rome thus over-born, Troubled, confronted thus, and, for th' extent Of equal juftice, us'd in fuch contempt ? My Lords, you know, as do the mightful gods, (However the disturbers of our peace

Buz in the people's ears) there nought hath paft,
But even with law against the wilful fons
Of old Andronicus. And what an if
His forrows have fo over-whelm'd his wits,
Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks,
His fits, his frenfy, and his bitterness ?
And now he writes to heav'n for his redrefs.
See, here's to Jove, and this to Mercury,
This to Apollo, this to the god of war:
Sweet fcrolls to fly about the streets of Rome!
What's this but libelling against the Senate,
And blazoning our injustice ev'ry where ?
A goodly humour, is it not, my Lords?
As who would fay, in Rome no justice were.
But if I live, his feigned ecftafies
Shall be no fhelter to thefe outrages:
But he and his fhall know, that juftice lives
In Saturninus' health; whom, if the fleep,
He'll fo awake, as fhe in fury fhall
Cut off the proud'ft confpirator that lives.

Tam. My gracious Lord, my lovely Saturnine,
Lord of my life, commander of my thought,
Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus' age,
Th' effects of forrow for his valiant fons,

Whofe lofs hath pierc'd him deep, and scarr'd his heart;
And rather comfort his diftreffed plight,
Than profecute the meaneft, or the beft,

For thefe contempts-Why, thus it fhall become
High-witted Tamora to glofe with all:

But,