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Or had he heard the heav'nly Harmony,
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 hou's Storm 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.

[Exeunt.

ACT

III.

SCENE

I.

Enter the Judges and Senators, with Marcus and Quintus bound, paffing on the Stage to the place of Execution, and Titus going before, pleading.

Tit. Hear 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 fhed,
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 Sons,

Whose Souls are not corrupted, as 'tis thought:
For two and twenty Sons 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 Soul's fad Tears:
Let my Tears ftanch the Earth's dry Appetite,
My Sons fweet Blood will make it fhame and blufh:

O Earth! I will befriend thee more with Rain, [Exeunt.
That shall diftil from these two ancient Ruins,
Than youthful April fhall with all her Showers
In Summer's drought: I'll drop upon thee ftill,
In Winter with warm Tears I'll melt the Snow,
And keep eternal Spring-time on thy Face,
So thou refufe to drink my dear Son's Blood.
VOL. IV.

Kk

Enter

Enter Lucius with his Sword drawn,
Oh Reverend Tribunes! gentle aged Men!
Unbind my Sons, 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 Sorrows 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 speak.
Tit. Why, 'tis no matter, Man; if they did hear,
They would not mark me: Or if they did hear,
They would not pity me.

Therefore I tell my Sorrows bootlefs to the Stones,
Who, tho' they cannot answer my Diftrefs,
Yet in fome fort they are 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 Stone is as soft Wax,

Tribunes more hard than Stones:

A Stone is filent, and offendeth not,

And Tribunes with their Tongues doom Men to death.
But wherefore ftandeft 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 must prey, and Rome affords no prey
But me and mine; how happy art thou then,
From these Devourers to be banished?

But who comes with our Brother Marcus here?
Exter Marcus and Lavinia.

Mar. Titus, prepare thy Noble Eyes to weep,
Or if not fo, thy Noble Heart to break:
I bring confuming Sorrow 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 upon her;
Speak my Lavinia, what accurfed Hand
Hath made thee handlefs in thy Father's fight?
What Fool hath added Water to the Sea?

Or brought a Faggot to bright-burning Troy?
My Grief was at the heighth before thou cam'ft,
And now like Nilus it difdaineth bounds:

Give me a Sword, I'll chop off my Hands too,
For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain t
And they have nurs'd this woe, in feeding Life:
In bootless Prayer have they been held up,
And they have ferv'd me to effectlefs ufe.
Now all the Service 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 Service are but vain.

Luc. Speak, gentle Sifter, who hath martyr'd thee?
Mar. O that delightful Engine of her Thoughts,
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 Sea,

Who marks the waxing Tide grow Wave by Wave,
Expecting ever when fome envious Surge

Will in his brinifh Bowels fwallow him.

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This way to death my wretched Sons are gone:
Here ftands my other Son, a banish'd Man,
And here my Brother weeping at my Woes.
But that which gives my Soul the greateft fpurn,
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my Soul-

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 Son 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 almoft wither'd."

Mar. Perchance the weeps because they kill'd her Husband. Perchance because she knows him 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,
Witnefs, the Sorrow that their Sifter makes.
Gentle Lavinia, let me kifs thy Lips,

Or make fome figns how I may do thee eafe:
Shall thy good Uncle, and thy Brother Lucius,
And thou and I fit round about fome Fountain,
Looking all downwards to behold our Cheeks,
How they are ftain'd like Meadows yet not dry
With miery flime left on them by a Flood:
And in the Fountain fhall we gaze fo long,
'Till the fresh taste 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 Shows
Pafs the remainder of our hateful Days?

What shall we do? Let us that have our Tongues
Plot fome devife of further miferies

To make us wondred at in time to come.

Luc. Sweet Father, ceafe your Tears, for at your Grief See how my wretched Sifter fobs and weeps.

Mar.

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 Signs,
Had the a Tongue to fpeak, now would the fay
That to her Brother which I faid 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 alone.

1

Aar. Titus Andronicus, my Lord the Emperor
Sends thee this Word, that if thou love thy Sons,
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 Sons 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 Tydings 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 spare 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 Battel-ax,
Writing Deftruction on the Enemies Castle?
Oh none of both but are of high defert:
My Hand hath been but idle, let it ferve
To ranfome my two Nephews from their Death,
Then have I kept it to a worthy end.

Aar. Nay, come agree, whose Hand shall go along,
For fear they die before their pardon come.

Mar. My Hand shall go.

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