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Manet Lucius.

Luc. Farewel, Andronicus, my noble father,
The woeful't 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 fister,

O, would thou wert as thou tofore 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 raise a power,
To be reveng'd on Rome and Saturnine.

[Exit Lucius. SCENE, an Apartment in Titus's House.

A Banquet.

Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and young Lucius, a Boy. O, fo, now fit; and look, you eat no more

Tit.

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Than will preserve juft fo much ftrength 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 ten-fold grief

With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine
Is left to tyrannize upon my breast;

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 woe, that thus doft talk in figns!
When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating,
'Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still;
Wound it with fighing, girl, kill it with groans;
Or get fome little knife between thy teeth,
And juft 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

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 doft thou urge the name of hands,-
To bid Æneas 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 franticly 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 to, and, gentle girl, eat this.
Here is no drink: hark, Marcus, what she says,
I can interpret all her martyr'd figns;

She says, the drinks no other drink but tears,
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 these 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 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.

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Mar.

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 dolings in the air? (19)

Poor harmless fly,

That with his pretty buzzing melody,

Caine 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 fo low,
But that between us we can kill a fly,

That comes in likeness of a cole.black Moor.

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 clofet, 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.

(19) And bux lamenting doings in the air.] Lamenting doings is a very idle expreffion, and conveys no idea. The alteration, which I have made, tho' it is but the addition of a fingle letter, is a great increase to the fenfe: and tho', indeed, there is fomewhat of a tautology in the epithet and fubftantive annext to it, yet that's no new thing with our author. I remember one of the very fame kind in his Locrine.

And gnash your teeth with dolorous laments,

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SCENE, Titus's Houfe.

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

Boy.

Elp, 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, he did.
Mar. What means my niece Lavinia by thefe figns?
Tit. Fear thou not, Lucius, fomewhat doth the mean:
See, Lucius, 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 fhe hath read to thee,
Sweet poetry, and Tully's oratory:

Can't thou not guess wherefore the 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, sweet aunt;
And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,

I will most willingly attend your Ladyship.

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Mar.

Mar. Lucius, I will.

\ Tit. How now, Lavinia? Marcus, what means this?
Some book there is, that she defires to fee.
Which is it, girl, of these? 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:
Why lifts the up her arms in fequence thus ?

Mar. I think, fhe means, that there was more than one
Confederate in the fact. Ay, more there was:
Or else to heav'n fhe heaves them, for revenge.
Tit. Lucius, what book is that fhe 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 bufily fhe turns the leaves! Help her: what would fhe find? Lavinia, fhall I read ? This is the tragick tale of Philomel,

And treats of Tereus' treafon and his rape;

And rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy.

Mar. See, brother, fee; note, how the quotes the leaves. Tit. Lavinia, wert thou thus furpriz'd, fweet girl, Ravish'd and wrong'd as Philomela was,

Forc'd in the ruthlefs, vaft, and gloomy woods?
See, fee ;-

Ay, fuch a place there is, where we did hunt,
(O had we never, never hunted there!)
Pattern'd by that the Poet here describes,
By nature made for murders and for rapes.

Mar. O, why should nature build fo foul a den,
Unless the gods delight in tragedies!

Tit. Give figns, fweet girl, for here are none but friends, What Roman Lord it was durft do the deed

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 me. Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,

Inspire me, that I may this treafon find.

My

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