Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments, (8)
Whofe circling fhadows Kings have fought to fleep in ?
And might not gain fo great a happiness,
As have thy love! why doft not fpeak to me?
Alas, a crimson river of warm blood,
Like to a bubbling fountain ftirr'd with wind,
Doth rife and fall between thy rofie lips,
Coming and going with thy honey breath.
But, fure, fome Tereus hath defloured thee;
And, left thou fhould't detect him, cut thy tongue.
Ah, now thou turn'ft away thy face for fhame!
And, notwithstanding all this lofs of blood,
(As from a conduit with their iffuing spouts,)
Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face,
Blufhing to be encountred with a cloud..
Shall I fpeak for thee? fhall I fay, 'tis fo?
O, that I knew thy heart, and knew the beast,
That I might rail at him to ease my mind!
Sorrow concealed, like an oven ftopt,
Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.
Fair Philomela, fhe but loft her tongue,
And in a tedious fampler few'd her mind.
But, lovely Neice, that Mean is cut from thee;
A craftier Tereus haft thou met withal,
And he hath cut those pretty fingers off,
That could have better few'd than Philomel.
Oh, had the monster seen those lilly hands
Tremble, like afpen leaves, upon a lute,
And make the filken ftrings delight to kiss them;
He would not then have touch'd them for his life,
Or had he heard the heav'nly harmony,
thofe fweet Ornaments, Whofe circling Shadows Kings have fought to fleep in, And might not gain fo great an Happiness,
As half thy Love!] As balf her Love? But might they gain any part of her Love? Or would she not confent to embrace 'em fo much as with one Arm? The Poet had no fuch Stuff in his Thoughts. My Correction reftores the true Meaning.; that, tho' Princes languish'd to fleep in her Arms, they could not obtain their Suit, or have her Love,
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 hour's ftorm 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 mifery!
SCENE, a Street in Rome.
Enter the fudges and Senators, with Marcus and Quintus bound, paffing on the ftage to the place of execution, and Titus going before, pleading.
EAR me, grave fathers; noble Tribunes, stay,
For pity of mine age, whofe youth was spent
In dangerous wars, whilft you fecurely flept:
For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed,
For all the frofty nights that I have watcht,
And for these bitter tears, which you now fee
Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks,
Be pitiful to my condemned fons,
Whofe fouls are not corrupted, as 'tis thought.
For two and twenty fons I never wept,
Because they died in Honour's lofty bed.
[Andronicus lieth down, and the judges pass by him.
For thefe, thefe, Tribunes, in the duft I write
My heart's deep languor, and my foul's fad tears:
Let my tears flanch the earth's dry appetite,
My fons' sweet blood will make it fhame and blush :
O earth! I will befriend thee more with rain,
That shall distil from these two antient ruins,
Than youthful April fhall with all his fhowers;
In fummer's drought I'll drop upon thee ftill;
In winter, with warm tears I'll melt the fnow
And keep eternal fpring-time on thy face,
So thou refufe to drink my dear fons' blood.
Enter Lucius with his fword drawn.
Oh, reverend Tribunes! gentle aged men!
Unbind my fons, reverse the doom of death:
-And let me fay, (that never 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 forrows to a stone."
Tit. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead; Grave Tribunes, once more I intreat of you
Luc. My gracious lord, no Tribune hears you fpeak.
Tit. Why, 'tis no matter, man; if they did hear,
They would not mark me; or, if they did mark,
They would not pity me.
Therefore I tell my forrows to the stones,
Who, tho' they cannot answer my diftrefs,
Yet in fome fort they're better than the Tribunes,
For that they will not intercept my tale;
When I do weep, they humbly at my feet
Receive my tears, and feem to weep with me;
And were they but attired in grave weeds,
Rome could afford no Tribune like to thefe.
A ftone is foft as wax, Tribunes more hard than ftones :
A ftone is filent, and offendeth not,
And Tribunes with their tongues doom men to death.
But wherefore ftand'ft thou with thy weapon drawn?
Luc. To refcue 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, doft thou not perceive,
That Rome is but a wilderness of Tygers;
Tygers muft prey, and Rome affords no prey
But me and mine; how happy art thou then,
From thefe devourers to be banished?
But who comes with our brother Marcus here?
Enter Marcus, and Lavinia.
Mar. Titus, prepare thy noble eyes to weep,
Or, if not fo, thy noble heart to break :
I bring confuming forrow to thine age.
Tit. Will it confume me? let me fee it then.
Mar. This was thy daughter.
Tit. Why, Marcus, fo fhe is.
Luc. Ah me! this object kills me.
Tit. Faint-hearted boy, arife and look
Speak, my Lavinia, what accurfed hand
Hath made thee handlefs, in thy father's fpight? (9)
What fool hath added water to the fea?
Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy?
My grief was at the height before thou cam'ft,
And now, like Nilus, it difdaineth bounds:
Give me a fword, 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 bootlefs prayer have they been held up,
And they have ferv'd me to effectless use.
Now all the fervice 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 fervice are but vain.
Luc. Speak, gentle fifter, who hath martyr'd thee?
Mar. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts,
Hath made thee bandlefs in thy Father's Sight?] But tho' Lavinia appear'd handlefs in her Father's Prefence, she was not made fo in his Sight. And if that be the true Reading, it can at best bear but this poor Meaning, What curs'd Hand hath robb'd thee of thy Hands, for thy Father to fee thee in that Condition? The flight Alteration, I have given, adds a much more reasonable Complaint, and aggravates the Sentiment. What curfed Hand hath robb'd thee of thy Hands, only in Defpight to thy Father, only to increase his Torments?
That blab'd them with fuch pleafing eloquence,
Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage,
Where, like a fweet melodious bird, it fung
Sweet various notes, inchanting every ear!
Luc. Oh, fay thou for her, who hath done this deed?
Mar. O, thus I found her ftraying in the park,
Seeking to hide her felf; as doth the deer,
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 ftand, as one upon a rock,
Environ'd with a wilderness of fea,
Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave;
Expecting ever when fome envious furge
Will in his brinifh bowels fwallow him.
This way to death my wretched fons are gone::
Here ftands my other fon, a banish'd man;
And here my brother, weeping at my woes.
But that, which gives my foul the greatest spurn,
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my foul..
Had I but feen thy picture in this plight,
It would have madded me. What fhall I do,
Now I behold thy lively body fo?
Thou haft no hands to wipe away thy tears,
Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyr'd thee;
Thy husband he is dead; and for his death
Thy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this.
Look, Marcus! ah, fon Lucius, look on her:
When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears
Stood on her cheeks; as doth the honey dew
Upon a gather'd lilly almost wither'd.
Mar. Perchance, fhe weeps becaufe they kill'd her
husband..
Perchance, becaufe fhe knows them innocent:
Tit. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful,
Because the law hath ta'en revenge on them.
No, no, they would not do fo foul a deed;
Witness the forrow, that their fifter makes,
Gentle Lavinia, let me kifs thy lips,
Or make fome figns how I may do thee ease:
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