But in Oblivion and hateful Griefs;
If Lucius live, he will require 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 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 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 juft 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 Eneas 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 fhould forget we had no Hands,
If Marcus did not name the word of Hands?

Come,

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, mesh'd upon her Cheeks.
Speechlefs complaint-OI will learn thy Thought.
In thy dumb Action will I be as perfec
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 thefe 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 Dish with a Knife.

What dost 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.

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?

Poor harmless Fly,

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. 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

Flattering my felf, as if it were the Moor,

Come hither purposely to poifon me.

C

There's for thy felf, and that's for Tamera: Ah Sirra?
Yet I think we are not brought so 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 falle Shadows for true Substances... Come, take away; Lavinia, go with me, I'll to thy Clofet, and go read with thee. 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. [Exeunt.

A CT IV. SCENE 1.

Enter young Lucius and Lavinia running after him, and the
Boy flies from her, with his Books under his Arm.
Titus and Marcus.

Boy. H Follows me every where, I know not why.
Elp, Grand-fire, help, my Aunt Lavinia

Good Uncle Marcus, fee how fwift the 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 she did.
Mar.What means my Neece Lavinia by these Signs?
Tit.Fear thou not, Lucius,fomewhat doth the mean:
See Lucius, fee, how much she makes of thee:
Some whither would fhe 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 guefs wherefore he plies thee thus?
Boy. My Lord, I know not I, nor can I guefs,
Unless fome Fit or Frenzie do poffefs her:
For I have heard my Grand-fire fay full oft,
Extremity of Grief would make Men mad.
And I have read, that Hecuba of Troy

Enter

Ran

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 flie
Caufelefs perhaps; but pardon me, sweet Aunt,
And, Madam, if my Uncle Marcus go,po
I will most willingly attend your Ladyship.
Mar. Lucius, I will.

Tit. How now, Lavinia ? Marcus, what means this?
Some Book there is that fhe defires to fee,
Which is it, Girl, of thefe? Open them, Boy,
But thou art deeper read, and better skill'd,
Come and make choice of all my Library,
And fo beguile thy Sorrow, 'till the Heav'ns
Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed:
What Book?

Why lifes fhe up her Arms in fequence thus?

Mar. I think the means that there was more than one Confederate in the Fact. Ay, more there was: Or else to Heav'n fhe heaves them, to revenge. Tit. Lucius, what Book is that the toffes fo? Boy. Grand-fire, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphofis, 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 the 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 fhould Nature build fo foul a Den,
Unless the Gods delight in Tragedies?

Tit. Give Signs, fweet Girl, for here are none but Friends, What Roman Lord it was durft do the deed;

Or funk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erft,

That left the Camp to fin in Lucrece Bed?

Mar. Sit down, fweet Neice; Brother, fit down by me, Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,

Infpire me, that I may this Treafon find.

My Lord, look here; look here Lavinia.

He writes his Name with his Staff, and guides it with his Feet and Month.

This fandy Plot is plain, guide, if thou canft,
This after me, when I have writ my Name,
Without the help of any Hand at all.

Curft be that Heart that forc'd us to this shift!
Write thou, good Neice, and here difplay at least,
What God will have discover'd for Revenge;
Heav'n guide thy Pen, to print thy Sorrows plain,
That we may know the Traitors, and the Truth.
She takes the Staff in her Mouth, and guides it with her Stumps,
and Writes.

Tit. Oh do you read, my Lord, what she hath writ?
Stuprum, Chiron, Demetrius.

Mar. What, what! the luftful Sons of Tamora, Performers of this hateful bloody deed?

Tit. Magni Dominator Poli,

Tam lentus andis fcelera! tam lentus vides!

Mar. Oh calm thee, gentle Lord; although I know
There is enough written upon this Earth,
To ftir a Mutiny in the mildeft Thoughts,
And arm the minds of Infants to Exclaims.
My Lord, kneel down with me: Lavinia kneel,
And kneel, fweet Boy, the Roman Hector's hope,
And fwear with me, as with the woful Peer,
And Father of that chaft dishonoured Dame,
Lord Junius Brutus fware for Lucrece Rape,
That we will profecute (by good Advice)
Mortal revenge upon thefe Traiterous Goths,
And fee their Blood, or die with this Reproach.
Tit. 'Tis fure enough, and you knew how.
But if you hurt thefe Bear-whelps, then beware,
The Dam will wake, and if the wind you once,

She's