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SCENE VI. An apartment in Titus's houfe.
A banquet.

Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and young Lucius, a boy.

Tit. So, fo, now fit; and look you eat no more
Than will preferve just so much strength in us
As will revenge these bitter woes of ours.
Marcus, unknit that forrow-wreathen knot;
Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands,
And cannot paffionate our tenfold 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 woe, that thus doft talk in figns!
When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating,
Thou canst not ftrike it thus to make it ftill;
Wound it with fighing, girl, kill it with groans;
Or get fome little knife between thy teeth,
And just against thy heart make thou a hole,
That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall,
May run into that fink, and foaking in,
Drown the lamenting fool in fea-falt tears.

Mar. Fie, brother, fie, teach her not thus to lay
Such violent hands upon her tender life.

Tit. How now! has forrow made thee doat already? Why, Marcus, no man fhould be mad but I;

What violent hands can fhe lay on her life?

Ah, 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; no talk of hands,-
Left we remember ftill that we have none.
Fie, fie, how franticly I fquare my talk,
As if we fhould 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 the fays,
I can interpret all her martyr'd figns.
She fays, the drinks no other drink but tears,

Brew'd

Brew'd with her forrows, mesh'd upon her cheeks: Speechlefs complaint !—O, I will learn thy thought; In thy dumb action will I be as perfect,

As begging hermits in their holy prayers.

Thou shalt not figh, nor hold thy ftumps to heav'n,
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a fign,
But I of thefe will rest an alphabet,

And by ftill practice learn to know thy meaning.
Boy. Good grandfire, leave these bitter, deep laments;
Make my aunt merry with fome pleafing tale.
Mar. Alas, the tender boy, in paffion mov'd,
Doth weep to fee his grandfire's heavinefs!

Tit. Peace, tender fapling; thou art made of tears, And tears will quickly melt thy life away.

[Marcus ftrikes the dish with a knife. What doft thou ftrike at, Marcus, with thy knife? Mar. At that that I have kill'd, my Lord, a fly. Tit. Out on thee, murderer; thou kill'ft my heart; 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 fee 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 flender gilded wings,

‘And buzz laments and dolings in the air?

'Poor harmless fly,

'That with his pretty buzzing melody,

Came here to make us merry ;

'And thou haft kill'd him.'

Mar. Pardon me, Sir; it was a black ill-favour'd fly, Like to the Emprefs' Moor; therefore I kill'd him. Tit. 0, 0, 0,

Then pardon me for reprehending thee,

For thou haft done a charitable deed.
Give me thy knife, I will infult on him,
Flattering myfelf, as if it were the Moor
Come hither purpofely to poifon me.
There's for thyfelf, and that's for Tamora.
Yet ftill I 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,

Mar. Alas, poor man, grief has fo wrought on him,
He takes falfe fhadows for true fubftances.

Come, take away; Lavinia, go with me;
I'll to thy closet, and go read with thee
Sad ftories chanced in the times of old.
Come, boy, and go with me ;, thy fight is young,

And thou shalt read, when mine begins to dazzle.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Titus's houfe.

Enter young Lucius, and Lavinia running after him; and the boy flies from her, with his books under his arm. Enter Titus and Marcus.

Boy. Help, grandfire, help; my aunt Lavinia
Follows me every where, I know not why.
Good uncle Marcus, fee how fwift fhe comes:
Alas, fweet aunt, I know not what you mean !
Mar. Stand by me, Lucius, do not fear thy aunt.
Tit. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm.
Boy. Ay, when my father was in Rome, the did.
Mar. What means my niece Lavinia by these figns?
Tit. Fear thou not, Lucius, fomewhat doth she mean :
See, Lucuis, fee how much fhe makes of thee:
Some whither would fhe have thee go with her.
Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care
Read to her fons, than she hath read to thee,
Sweet poetry, and Tully's oratory.

Cant thou not guefs wherefore fhe plies thee thus?
Boy. My Lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,
Unless fome fit or frenzy do poffefs her:
For I have heard my grandfire fay full oft,
Extremity of grief would make men mad.
And I have read, that Hecuba of Troy
Ran mad through forrow; that made me to fear,
Although, my Lord, I know my noble aunt
Loves me as dear as e'er my mother did;
And would not, but in fury, fright my youth;
Which made me down to throw my books,and fly,
Caufelefs perhaps but pardon me, fweet aunt;

And

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And, Madam, if my uncle Marcus go,

I will most willingly attend your Ladyship.
Mar. Lucius, I will.

Tit. How now, Lavinia? Marcus, what means this?
Some book there is that the defires to fee.
Which is it, girl, of thefe? open them, boy.
But thou art deeper read, and better skill'd:
Come, and make choice of all my library,
And fo beguile thy forrow, till the heav'ns.
Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed.
What book?

Why lifts the up her arms in fequence thus ?

Var. I think the means that there was more than one
Confederate in the fact. Ay more there was;
Or elfe to heav'n fhe heaves them for revenge.
Tit. Lucius, what book is that she toffes fo?
Boy. Grandfire, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphofes ;
My mother gave it me.

Mar. For love of her that's gone,

Perhaps the cull'd it from among the reft.

Tit. Soft fee how bufly fhe turns the leaves !

:

Help her what would fhe find? Lavinia, fhall I read?
This is the tragic tale of Philomel,

And treats of Tereus' treafon, and his rape;
And rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy.

[leaves.

Mar. See, brother, see; note how the quotes the
Tit. Lavinia, wert thou thus furpris'd, fweet girl,
Ravish'd and wrong'd as Philomela was,
Forc'd in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods?
See, See,-

Ay, fuch a place 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, why fhould Nature build fo foul a den,
Unless the gods delight in tragedies!

Tit. Give figns, fweet girl, for here are none but
What Roman Lord it was durft do the deed: [friends,
Or flunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erft,

That left the camp to fin in Lucrece' bed?

Mar. Sit down, fweet niece; brother, fit down by Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,

[me. Infpire

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Infpire 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,
This after me, when I have writ my name,
Without the help of any hand at all.

Curs'd be that heart that forc'd us to this shift!
Write thou, good niece; and here difplay, at leaft,
What God will have discover'd for revenge;
Heav'n guide thy pen, to print thy forrows plain,
That we may know the traitors and the truth!

[She takes the staff in her mouth, and guides it
with her ftumps, and writes.

Tit. Oh, do you read, my Lord what she hath writ ?` Stuprum, Chiron, Demetrius.

Mar. What, what!—the luftful fons of Tamora Performers of this hateful bloody deed?

Tit. Magne Regnator poli,

Tam lentus audis fcelera ! tam lentus vides!

Mar. Oh, calm thee, gentle Lord; although I know There is enough written upon this earth To ftir a mutiny in the mildeft thoughts, And arm the minds of infants to exclaims. My Lord, kneel down with me: Lavinia, kneel; And kneel, fweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope, And fwear with me, (as with the woful peer, And father of that chafte dishonour'd dame, Lord Junius Brutus fware for Lucrece' rape), That we will profecute (by good advice) Mortal revenge upon thefe traiterous Goths; And fee their blood, or die with this reproach. Tit. 'Tis fure enough, if you knew how. But if you hurt these bear-whelps, then beware,. The dam will wake; and if fhe wind you once, She's with the lion deeply ftill in league; And lulls him whilft fhe playeth on her back, And, when he fleeps, will the do what she lift. You're a young huntsman, Marcus, let it alone ; And come, and I will go get a leaf of brafs, And with a gad of steel will write thefe words,

And

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