Luc. By Heav'n it shall not go.
Tit. Sirs, ftrive 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 Son, Let me redeem my Brothers both from Death.
Mar. And for our Father's fake, and Mother's care, 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.
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 honeft,
And never whilft I live deceive Men fo;
But I'll deceive you in another fort,
And that you'll lay e'er half an hour pafs.
[He cuts off Titus's Hand. Enter Lucius and Marcus again.
Tit. Now ftay your Strife; what fhall be, is dispatcht: 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 Sons, fay, I account of them, As Jewels purchas'd at an eafie Price, And yet dear too, because I bought mine own.
Aar. I go, Andronicus, and for thy Hand Look by and by to have thy Sons 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 Soul black like his Face.
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 breath the Welkin dim,
And ftain the Sun with Fog, as fometime Clouds,
When they do hug him in their melting Bofoms.
Mar. Oh, Brother, fpeak with Poffibilities,
And do not break into thefe two Extreams.
Tit. Is not my Sorrow deep, having no bottom?
Then be my Paffions bottomlefs with them.
Mar. But yet let Reafon govern thy Lament.
Tit. If there were Reafon for thefe Miferies
Then into limits could I bind my Woes;
When Heav'n doth weep, doth not the Earth o'er flow?
If the Winds rage, doth not the Sea wax mad,
Threatning the Welkin with his big-fwoln Face?
And wilt thou have a Reason for this Coil?
I am the Sea, hark how her Sighs do blow ;
She is the weeping Welkin, I the Earth:
Then must my Sea be moved with her Sighs,
Then must my Earth with her continual Tears
Become a Deluge, over-flow'd and drown'd:
For why, my Bowels cannot hide her Woes,
But like a Drunkard must I vomit them;
Then give me leave, for lofers will have leave,
To eafe their Stomachs with their bitter Tongues.
Enter a Meffenger with two Heads and a Hand.
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 Sons,
And here's thy Hand in fcorn to thee sent back;
Thy Griefs, their Sports, thy Resolution mockt:
That woe is me to think upon thy Woes,
More than Remembrance of my Father's Death.
Mar. Now let hot Aina cool in Sicily,
And be my Heart an ever-burning Hell;
Thefe Miferies are more than may be born.
To weep with them that weep, doth ease fome deal,
But Sorrow 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 ftarved Snake.
Tit. When will this fearful flumber have an end?
Mar. Now farewel Flattery, die Andronicus,
Thou doft not flumber, fee thy two Sons Heads,
Kk 4
Thy warlike Hand, thy mangled Daughter here;
Thy other banish'd Son with this dear Sight
Struck pale and bloodless, and thy Brother I,
Even like a ftony Image, cold and numb.
Ah now no more will I controul my Griefs,
Rend off thy Silver Hair, thy other Hand
Gnawing with thy Teeth, and be this dismal fight
The clofing up of our most wretched Eyes;
Now is a time to ftorm, why art thou still?
Mar. Why doft thou laugh? it fits not with this Hour.
Tit. Why I have not another Tear to fhed;
Befides, this Sorrow is an Enemy,
And would ufurp upon my watry Eyes,
And make them blind with tributary Tears,
Then which way fhall I find Revenges Cave?
For thefe two Heads do feem to speak to me,
And threat me, I fhall never come to Blifs,
'Till all these M fchiefs 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 Soul to right your Wrongs.
The Vow is made, come Brother take a Head,
And in this Hand the other will I bear,
Lavinia, thou shalt be employ'd in these things;
Bear thou my Hand, fweet 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.
Manet Lucius.
Luc. Farewel Andronicus, my noble Father,
The woful'ft Man that ever liv'd in Rome;
Farewel, proud Rome, 'till Lucius come again,
He leaves his Pledges dearer than his Life;
Farewel Lavinia, my noble Sifter,
O would thou wert as thou to fore haft been,
But now, nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives
But in Oblivion and hateful Griefs;
If Lucius live, he will requite your Wrongs,
And make proud Saturninus and his Empress
Beg at the Gates like Tarquin and his Queen.
Now will I to the Goths and raife a Power,
To be reveng'd on Rome and Saturnine.
[Exit Lucius.
A Banquet. Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and the Boy.
Tit. So, fo, now fit, and look you eat no more
Than will preferve juft fo much Strength in us,
As will revenge these bitter Woes of ours.
Marcus, unknit that Sorrow-wreathen knot;
Thy Niece and I, poor Creatures, want our Hands
And cannot paffionate our ten-fold Grief,
With folded Arms. This poor Right Hand of mine
Is left to Tyrannize upon my Breaft,
And when my Heart, all mad with Mifery,
Beats in this hollow Prifon of my Flesh,
Then thus I thump it down.
Thou Map of Wo, that thus doft talk in Signs,
When thy poor Heart beats with outragious beating,
Thou canst not ftrike it thus to make it ftill;
Wound it with Singing, 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 Sink, and foaking in,
Drown the lamenting Fool in Sea-falt Tears.
Mar. Fie, Brother, fie, teach her not thus to lay
Such violent Hands upon her tender Life.
Tit. How now! Has Sorrow made thee doat already?
Why, Marcus, no Man fhould be mad but I;
What violent Hands can fhe lay on her Life?
Ah, wherefore doft thou urge the name of Hands,-
To bid Aneas tell the Tale twice o'er,
How Troy was burnt, and he made miferable?
O handle not the Theam, no talk of Hands,
Left we remember ftill that we have none.
Fie, fie, how Frantickly I fquare my Talk,
As if we should forget we had no Hands,
If Marcus did not name the word of Hands?
Come, let's fall too, and gentle Girl eat this,
Here is no Drink: Hark, Marcus, what she says,
I can interpret all her martyr'd Signs,;
She fays, the drinks no other Drink but Tears,
Brew'd with her Sorrows, mefh'd upon her Cheeks.
Speechlefs complaint I will learn thy Thought.
In thy dumb Action will I be as perfect
As begging Hermits in their holy Prayers.
Thou shall not figh, nor hold thy Stumps to Heav'n,
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a Sign,
But I, of thefe, will wreft 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 heaviness.
Tit. Peace tender Sapling, thou are made of Tears,
And Tears will quickly melt thy Life away.
Marcus ftrikes the Difh 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
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 buz lamenting doings in the Air?
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. O, 0, 0,
Then pardon me for reprehending thee,
For thou haft done a Charitable Deed;
Give me thy Knife, I will infult on him,
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