Rent off thy silver hair, thy other hand

Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight
The closing up of our most wretched eyes:

Now is a time to storm; why art thou still?

Tit. Ha, ha, ha!

Marc. Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this hour.
Tit. Why, I have not another tear to shed:

Besides, this sorrow is an enemy,

And would usurp upon my watery eyes,
And make them blind with tributary tears:
Then which way shall I find Revenge's cave?
For these two heads do seem to speak to me,
And threat me I shall never come to bliss
Till all these mischiefs be return'd again

Even in their throats that have committed them.
Come, let me see what task I have to do.-

You heavy people, circle me about,

That I may turn me to each one of you,

And swear 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; (5o)
Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth.—
As for thee, boy, go get thee from my sight;
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 kiss and part, for we have much to do.

[Exeunt Titus, Marcus, and Lavinia.
Luc. Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father,-
The wofull'st man that ever liv'd in Rome:
Farewell, proud Rome; till Lucius come again,
He leaves (51) his pledges dearer than his life:
Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister;

O, would thou wert as thou tofore hast 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 Saturnine and his empress (52)

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.

SCENE II. A room in TITUS's house. A banquet set out.

Enter TITUS, MARCUS, LAVINIA, and young LUCIUS, a Boy.

Tit. So, so; now sit: and look you eat no more
Than will preserve just so 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 passionate our tenfold grief

With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine

Is left to tyrannize upon my breast;

Who,(53) when my heart, all mad with misery,
Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh,

Then thus I thump it down.—

Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs! [To Lavinia.
When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating,

Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still.
Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans;
Or get some 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, soaking in,
Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.

Marc. Fie, brother, fie! teach her not thus to lay

Such violent hands upon her tender life.

Tit. How now! has sorrow made thee dote already?

Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I.

What violent hands can she lay on her life?

Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands ;—

To bid Æneas tell the tale twice o'er,

How Troy was burnt, and he made miserable?
O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands,
Lest we remember still that we have none.—
Fie, fie, how franticly I square 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 signs;—
She says she drinks no other drink but tears,
Brew'd with her sorrow, mesh'd upon her cheeks:-
Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought;
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect

As begging hermits in their holy prayers:

Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven,
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign,
But I of these will wrest an alphabet,

And by still practice learn to know thy meaning.

Boy. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments: Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.

Marc. Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov'd,

Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness.

Tit. Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears,

And tears will quickly melt thy life away.

[Marcus strikes the dish with a knife. What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy (54) knife? Marc. At that that I have kill'd, my lord,—a fly. Tit. Out on thee, murderer! thou kill'st my heart; Mine eyes are (55) cloy'd with view of tyranny:

A deed of death done on the innocent

Becomes not Titus' brother: get thee gone;

I see thou art not for my company.

Marc. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.

Tit. But (56) how, if that fly had a father and mother? How would he hang his slender gilded wings,

And buzz lamenting doings in the air!

Poor harmless fly,

That, with his pretty buzzing melody,

Came here to make us merry! and thou hast kill'd him.
Marc. Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favour'd fly,

Like to the empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him.

Tit. 0, 0, 0,

Then pardon me for reprehending thee,

For thou hast done a charitable deed.
Give me thy knife, I will insult on him;
Flattering myself, as if it were the Moor
Come hither purposely to poison me.-
There's for thyself, and that's for Tamora.-
Ah, sirrah!

Yet, I think,(57) we are not brought so low,
But that between us we can kill a fly

That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.

Marc. Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on him,
He takes false shadows for true substances.

Tit. Come, take away.-Lavinia, go with me:
I'll to thy closet; and go read with thee
Sad stories chancèd in the times of old.-

-

Come, boy, and go with me: thy sight is young,
And thou shalt read when mine begins (58) to dazzle.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I. Rome. Before TITUS's house.

Enter TITUS and MARCUS. Then enter young LUCIUS, running, with books under his arm, and LAVINIA running after him.

Boy. Help, grandsire, help! my aunt Lavinia

Follows me every where, I know not why :-
Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes.-

Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean.

Marc. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine aunt.
Tit. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm.
Boy. Ay, when my father was in Rome she did.
Marc. What means my niece Lavinia by these signs?

Tit. Fear her not, Lucius :-somewhat doth she mean:

See, Lucius, see how much she makes of thee:
Somewhither would she have thee go with her.
Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care
Read to her sons than she hath read to thee
Sweet poetry and Tully's Orator.

Marc.(59) Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee

thus?

Boy. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,
Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her:
For I have heard my grandsire say full oft,
Extremity of griefs would make men mad;
And I have read that Hecuba of Troy

Ran mad through sorrow: 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,-
Causeless, perhaps.—But pardon me, sweet aunt:
And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,

I will most willingly attend your ladyship.
Marc. Lucius, I will.

[Lavinia turns over with her

stumps the books which Lucius has let fall.

Tit. How now, Lavinia !-Marcus, what means this?
Some book there is that she desires to see.-

Which is it, girl, of these ?-Open them, boy.-
But thou art deeper read, and better skill'd:
Come, and take choice of all my library,
And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens
Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed.-(60)
Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus?

Marc. I think she means that there was more than one Confederate in the fact;-ay, more there was;

Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge.
Tit. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so?
Boy. Grandsire, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphoses;
My mother gave it me.

Marc.

For love of her that's gone,

Perhaps she cull'd it from among the rest.

Tit. Soft! so (1) busily she turns the leaves!
Help her:

What would she find?-Lavinia, shall I read ?
This is the tragic tale of Philomel,

And treats of Tereus' treason and his rape;
rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy.

And