Page images
PDF
EPUB

Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius,
And thou, and I, fit round about some fountain,
Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks,
How they are fain'd like meadows yet not dry
With mirey flime left on them by a flood?
And in the fountain fhall we gaze fo long,
'Till the fresh tafte be taken from that clearness,
And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears?
Or fhall we cut away our hands like thine?
Or fhall we bite our tongues, and in dumb fhows
País the remainder of our hateful days?

What shall we do? let us, that have our tongues,
Plot fome device of further mifery,

To make us wondred at in time to come.

Luc. Sweet father, ceafe your tears; for, at your grief, See, how my wretched fifter fobs and weeps.

Mar. Patience, dear neice; good Titus, dry thine eyes. Tit. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! brother, well I wot, Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,

For thou, poor man, haft drown'd it with thine own.
Luc. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.
Tit. Mark, Marcus, mark; I understand her figns;
Had fhe a tongue to speak, now would she say
That to her brother which I said to thee.
His napkin, with his true tears all bewet,
Can do no fervice on her forrowful cheeks.
Oh, what a fympathy of woe is this!
As far from help as Limbo is from bliss.

Enter Aaron.

Aar. Titus Andronicus, my lord the Emperor
Sends thee this word; that if thou love thy fons,
Let Marcus, Lucius, or thy felf, old Titus,
Or any one of you, chop off your hand,
And fend it to the King; he for the fame
Will fend thee hither both thy fons alive,
And that fhall be the ranfom for their fault.
Tit. Oh, gracious Emperor! oh, gentle Aaron!
Did ever raven fing fo like a lark,

That gives fweet tings of the Sun's uprife?

With all my heart, I'll fend the Emperor my hand; Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off?

Luc. Stay, father, for that noble hand of thine,
That hath thrown down fo many enemies,
Shall not be fent; my hand will ferve the turn.
My youth can better fpare my blood than you,
And therefore mine fhall fave my brothers' lives.
Mar. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome,
And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-ax,

Writing Deftruction on the enemies' Cafque? (10)
Oh, none of Both but are of high defert:
My hand hath been but idle, let it ferve

To raniom my two Nephews from their death;
Then have I kept it to a worthy end.

Aar. Nay, come, agree, whofe hand fhall go along, For fear they die before their Pardon come.

Mar. My hand fhall go.

Luc. By heav'n, it fhall not go.

Tit. Sirs, frive no more, fuch wither'd herbs as these Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.

Luc. Sweet father, if I fhall be thought thy fon,

Let me redeem my brothers Both from death.
Mar. And for our father's fake, and mother's care,

(10) Which of your Hands hath not defended Rome,

And rear'd aloft the bloody Battle-axe,

Writing Deftruction on the Enemies' Caftle?] This is a Paffage, which fhews a most wonderful Sagacity in our Editors. They could not, fure, intend an Improvement of the Art Military, by teaching us that it was ever a Custom to hew down Caftles with the Battle-Axe. Or could they have a Defign to tell us, that they were Caftles formerly on their heads for defenfive Armour? I ventur'd, fome time ago, to correct the Paffage thus ;

Writing Deftruction on the Enemies' Cask.

i. e. an Helmet; from the French Word, une Cafque. A broken k in the Manufcript might eafily be mistaken for tl, and thus a Caftle was built at once. But as I think it is much more feasible to fplit an Helmet with a Battle-axe, than to cut down a Cafile with it, I fhall continue to stand by my Emendation.

Now

[ocr errors]

Now let me fhew a brother's love to thee.
Tit. Agree between you, I will fpare my hand.
Luc. Then I'll go fetch an ax.

Mar. But I will ufe the ax.

[Exeunt Lucius and Marcus. Tit. Come hither, Aaron, I'll deceive them both, Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine. Aar. If that be call'd deceit, I will be honest, And never, whilft I live, deceive men fo. But I'll deceive you in another sort,

And that, you'll fay, ere half an hour pass.

[Afide.

[He cuts off Titus's "Hand.

Enter Lucius and Marcus again.

Tit. Now ftay your ftrife; what shall be, is dispatch'd: Good Aaron, give his Majefty my hand: Tell him, it was a hand that warded him From thousand dangers, bid him bury it : More hath it merited; that let it have. As for my fons, fay, I account of them As jewels purchas'd at an eafy price; And yet dear too, because I bought mine own. Aar. I go, Andronicus; and for thy hand Look by and by to have thỳ fons with thee: Their heads, I mean.-Oh, how this villany Doth fat me with the very thought of it! Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace, Aaron will have his foul black like his face.

[Afide.

[Exit.

Tit. O hear! I lift this one hand up to heav'n, And bow this feeble ruin to the earth;

If any Power pities wretched tears,

To that I call: What, wilt thou kneel with me?
Do then, dear heart, for heav'n fhall hear our prayers,
Or with our fighs we'll breathe the welkin dim,
And ftain the fun with fogs, as fometime clouds,
When they do hug him in their melting bofoms.
Mar. Oh! brother, fpeak with poffibilities,
And do not break into thefe deep extremes.
Tit. Is not my forrow deep, having no bottom?
Then be my paffions bottomlefs with them.

Mar.

Mar. But yet let reafon govern thy Lament. Tit. If there were reason for these miseries, Then into limits could I bind my woes.

When heav'n doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow?
If the winds rage, doth not the fea wax mad,
Threatning the welkin with his big-swol'n face?
And wilt thou have a reason for this coil?
I am the fea; hark, how her fighs do blow;
She is the weeping welkin, I the earth:
Then must my fea be moved with her fighs,
Then must my earth with her continual tears
Become a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd:
For why, my bowels cannot hide her woes,
But, like a drunkard, muft I vomit them;
Then give me leave, for lofers will have leave
To eafe their ftomachs with their bitter tongues.

Enter a Messenger, bringing in two heads and
a band.

Mef. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repay'd
For that good hand thou fent'ft the Emperor;
Here are the heads of thy two noble fons,
And here's thy hand in fcorn to thee fent back;
Thy grief's their sport, thy refolution mockt:
That woe is me to think upon thy woes,

More than remembrance of my father's death. [Exit.
Mar. Now let hot Ætna cool in Sicily,

And be my heart an ever-burning hell;

These miseries are more than may be borne !
To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal,

But forrow flouted at is double death.

Luc. Ah, that this fight fhould make fo deep a wound,

And yet detefted life not fhrink thereat;

That ever death fhould let life bear his name,
Where life hath no more intereft but to breathe.
Mar. Alas, poor heart, that kifs is comfortless.
As frozen water to a starved snake.

Tit. When will this fearful flumber have an end?
Mar. Now, farewel, flattery! die, Andronicus;
Thou doft not flumber; fee, thy two fons' heads,

Thy

Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here;
Thy other banish'd fon with this dear fight
Struck pale and bloodlefs; and thy brother I,
Even like a ftony image, cold and numb.
Ah! now no more will I controul thy griefs; (11)
Rend off thy filver hair, thy other hand
Gnawing with thy teeth, and be this dismal fight
The clofing up of your most wretched eyes!
Now is a time to ftorm, why art thou still?

Tit. Ha, ha, ha!

Mar. Why doft thou laugh it fits not with this hour.
Tit. Why, I have not another tear to shed ;
Befides, this forrow is an enemy,

And would ufurp upon my watry eyes,
And make them blind with tributary tears;
Then which way fhall I find Revenge's Cave?
For these two heads do feem to speak to me,
And threat me, I fhall never come to blifs,
"Till all these mischiefs be return'd again,
Even in their throats that have committed them.
Come, let me fee, what task I have to do
You heavy people, circle me about;
That I may turn me to each one of you,
And fwear unto my foul to right your wrongs.
The vow is made;

--

come, Brother, take a head,

And in this hand the other will I bear;

Lavinia, thou fhalt be employ'd in these things;
Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth;
As for thee, boy, go get thee from my fight,
Thou art an Exile, and thou must not stay.
Hie to the Goths, and raise an army there;
And if you love me, as I think you do,

Let's kifs and part, for we have much to do. [Exeunt.

(11) Ab, now no more will I controul my Griefs; ]. I read,tby Griefs. Marcus had before perfuaded Titus to be temperate and restrain the Excess of his Sorrows: but now, says be, that fo miferable an Object is prefented to your Sight, as a dear Daughter so heinously abus'd, e'en indulge your Sorrows till they put an end to your miferable Life.

Manet

« PreviousContinue »