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Tit. When will this fearful slumber have an end?
Mar. Now farewell flattery: Die, Andronicus;
Tit. Ha, ha, ha!
And, if you love me, as I think you do,
Exeunt Titus, Marcus, and Lavinia.
SCENE II.-A room in Titus's house. A banquet
Enter Tirus, MARCUS, LAVINIA, and young
LUCIUS, a boy. Tit. So, so; now sit: and look, -you eat no more Than will preserve just so much strength in us As will revenge these bitter woes of ours. Marcus, unkpit that sorrow-wreathen knot; Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands, And cannot passionate 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 misery, Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh, Then thus I thump it down.Thou map of that thus dost talk in signs!
[To Lavinia. When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating,
Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still.
Mar. Fye, brother, fye! teach her not thus to lay
already? Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I. What violent hands can she lay on her life! Ab, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands ;To bid Æneas tell the tale twice o'er, How Troy was burnt, and he made miserable? O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands; Lest we remember still, that we have none.--Fye, fye, how franticly I square 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 she says; I can interpret all her martyr'd signs; She
says, she drinks po other drink but tears, Brew'd with her -sorrows,':mesh'd upon her cheeks: Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought; In thy dumb action will I be as perfect, As begging hermits in their holy prayers : Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven, Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign, But I, of these, will wrest an alphabet, And, by still practice, learn to know thy meaning. Boy. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep la
ments : Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.
Mar. Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov'd, Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness.
Tit. Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears, And tears will quickly melt thy life away.
[Marcus strikes the dish with a knife. What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?
Mar. At that that I have kill'd, my lord; a fly. Tit. Out on thee, murderer! thou kill'st
beart; 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 see, thou art not for my company.
Mar. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.
Tit. But how, if that fly had a father and mother? How would he hang his slender gilded wings, And buz lamenting doings in the air? Poor harmless fly! That with his pretty buzzing melody, Came here to make us merry; and thou hast kill'd
him. Mar. Pardon me, sir; 'twas a black ill-favour'd fly, Like to the empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him.
Tit, 0, 0, 0! Then pardon me for reprehending thee, For thou hast done a charitable deed. Give me thy knife, I will insult on bim ; Flattering myself, as if it were the Moor, Come hither purposely to poison me.There's for thyself, and that's for Tamora.--Ah, sirrah! Yet I do think we are not brought so low, But that, between us, we can kill a fly, That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor. Mar. Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on
him, He takes false shadows for true substances. Tit. Come, take away.---Lavinia, go with me:
I'll to thy closet, and go read with thee
SCENE I.—The same. Before Titus's house. Enter Titus and MARCUS. Then enter young
LUCIUS, LAVINIA running after him. Boy. Help, grandsire, help! my aunt Lavinia Follows me every where, I know not why:Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes ! Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean. Mar. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine
aunt. Tit. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm. Boy. Ay, when my father was in Rome, she did. Mar. What means my niece Lavinia by these
signs ? Tit. Fear her not, Lucius:--Somewhat doth she
See, Lucius, see, how much she makes of thee :
Boy. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess, Unless some fit of frenzy do possess her: