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And do not break into these two Extreams.
Tit. Is not my Sorrow deep, having no bottom? Then be my Paffions bottomless with them.
Mar. But yet let Reafon govern thy Lament.
Tit. If there were Reafon for these Miseries
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-swoln Face?
And wilt thou have a Reason for this Coils
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 muft I vomit them;
Then give me leave, for losers will have leave,
To ease their Stomachs with their bitter Tongues.
Enter a Messenger with two Heads and a Hand.
Mes. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repay'd,
For that good Hand thou feneft the Emperor;
Here are the Heads of thy two noble Sons,
And here's thy Hand in scorn 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. [Exit.
Mar. Now let hot Aina cool in Sicily,
And be my Heart an ever-burning Hell;
These Miseries are more than may be born.
To weep with them that weep, doth ease fome deal,
But Sorrow flouted at is double Death.
Lwc. Ah that this light should make so deep a Wound,
detested Life not shrink thereat; That ever Death should let Life bear his Name, Where Life hath no more Interest but to breathe.
Mar. Alas, poor Heart, chat Kiss is comfortless, As frozen Water to a ftarved Snake.
Tit. When will this fearful flumber have an end?
Mar. Now farewel Flattery, dio Andronicus, Thou doft not sumber, see thy two Sons Heads,
Thy warlike Hand, thy mangled Daughter here;
Thy other banish'd Son with this dear Sight
Struck pale and bloodless, and thy Brother 1,
Even like a stony 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 closing up of our most wretched Eyes;
Now is a time to storm, why art thou Atill?
Tit. Ha, ha, ha.
Mar. Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this Hour,
Tit. Why I have not another Tear to hed;
Besides, this Sorrow is an Enemy,
And would usurp upon my watry Eyes,
And inake them blind with tributary Tears,
Then which way shall I find Revenges 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;
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 Gols, 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. [Excunt.
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 require your Wrongs,
And make proud Saturninus and bis. 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.
A Banquet. Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and ibe Boy.
Tit. So, so, now sit, and look you eat no more
Than will preserve just so much Strength in us,
As wilt 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 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 Misery,
Beats in this hollow Prison of my Flesh,
Then thus I thump it down.
Thou Map of Wo, that thus dost talk in Signs,
When thy poor Heart beats with outragious beating,
Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still;
Wound it with Singing, Girl, kill it with Groans;
Or get some little Knife between thy Teeth,
And just agaiost thy Heart make chou 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-fale 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 should be mad but I;
What violent Hands can she lay on her Lifes
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 Theam, no talk of Hands,
Left we remember still that we have none.
Fie, fie, how Frantickly 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 too, and gentle Girl eat this,
Here is no Drink: Hark, Marcus, what she says,
I can interpret all her martyrd Signs, ;
She says, the drinks no other Drink but Tears,
Brewd with her Sorrows, mesh'd upon her Cheeks.
Speechless complaintso I will learn thy Thought.
In thy dumb A&ion 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 these, will wrest an Alphabet,
And by ftill Prađice, learn to know thy Meaning.
Boy. Good Grandlire leave thefe bitter deep Laments,
Make my Aunt merry, with some pleafing Tale.
Mar. Alas the tender Boy, in Passion movid, Doth weep to see his Grandsáre's heaviness.
Tit. Peace tender Sapling, thou are made of Tears, And Tears will quickly melt thy Life away. .
Marcus Arikes the Dish with a Knife. Whạt dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy Knife ?
Mar. At that that I have kill'd, my Lord, a Fly.
Tit. Qut on thee, Murderer ; thou kill'st my Heart,
Mine Eyes are cloy'd with view of Tyranny:
A deed of Death done on the Innocent
Becomes not Titus Brother; get
gone, I fee thou art not for my Company.
Mar. Alas, my Lord, I have but killd a Fly.
Tit. But- -how if that Fly had a Father and Mother?
How would he hang his slender gilded Wings,
And buz 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.
Mar. Pardon me, Sir,
It was a black ill-favour'd Fly,'
Like to the Empress Moor, therefore I killed him.
Tit. O, O, O,
Then pardon me for reprehending thee,
For thou hast done a Charitable Deed;
Give me thy Knife, I will insult on him,
Flattering my self, as if it were the Moor,
Come hii her purposely to poifon me.
There's for thy felt, and that's for Tamora: Ah Sirra?
Yet I think we are not brough¢ lo low,
But that between us, we can kill a Fiy,
That comes in likeness of 1 Cole black Moor.
Mar. Alas' poor Man, Grief has fo wrought on him,
He takes falle Shadows for true Substances.
Come, take away; Lavinia, go with me,
I'll to thy Closet, and go read with chee
Sad Stories, chanced in the times of old.
Come, Boy, and go with me, thy sight is young,
And thou shalt read, when mine begin to dazle. [Exennt.
Enter young Lucius und Lavinia running after him, and the
Boy flies from her, with his Books under his Arm. Enter
Titus and Marcus.
Elp, Grand-lire, 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.
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 she did.
Mar. What means my Neece Lavinia by these Signs?
Tit.Fear thou not, Lucius, somewhat doth the mean:
See Lucius, fee, how much the makes of thee:
Some whither would the have thee go with her.
Ah, Boy, Cornelia never with more care
Read to her Sons, than the 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 guefs,
Unless some Fit or Frenzie do posless her:
For I have heard my Grand-fire say full oft,
Extremity of Grief would make Men mad.
And I have read, that Hecuba of Troy