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

thus?

Boy. My lord, I know not, I, nor can 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

I

guess,

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 (61) 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

Marc. See, brother, see; note how she quotes the leaves. Tit. Lavinia, wert thou thus surpris'd, sweet girl, Ravish'd and wrong'd, as Philomela was,

Forc'd in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods ?—
See, see!—

Ay, such 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.

Marc. O, why should nature build so foul a den,

Unless the gods delight in tragedies?

Tit. Give signs, sweet girl, -for here are none but friends,

What Roman lord it was durst do the deed:

Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst,

That left the camp to sin in Lucrece' bed?

Marc. Sit down, sweet niece :-brother, sit down by me.Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,

Inspire me, that I may this treason find!-
My lord, look here:-look here, Lavinia :
This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst,
This after me, when (62) I have writ my name

Without the help of any hand at all. [He writes his name
with his staff, and guides it with his feet and mouth.
Curs'd be that heart that forc'd us to this shift!-
Write thou, good niece; and here display, at last,
What God will have discover'd for revenge:
Heaven 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. O, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ ?"Stuprum-Chiron-Demetrius."

Marc. What, what!—the lustful sons of Tamora Performers of this heinous, bloody deed?

Tit. Magni Dominator poli,

Tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides?

Marc. O, calm thee, gentle lord; although I know

There is enough written upon this earth

To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts,

And arm the minds of infants to exclaims.

My lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel;
And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope;
And swear with me,-as, with the woful fere
And father of that chaste dishonour'd dame,
Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece' rape,—
That we will prosecute, by good advice,
Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths,
And see their blood, or die with this reproach.

Tit. 'Tis sure enough, an you knew how.
But if you hunt (63) these bear-whelps, then beware:
The dam will wake; and, if she wind you once,
She's with the lion deeply still in league,

And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back,
And when he sleeps will she do what she list.
You are a young huntsman, Marcus; let it alone;
And, come, I will go get a leaf of brass,
And with a gad of steel will write these words,

And lay it by the angry northern wind

Will blow these sands, like Sibyl's leaves, abroad,
And where's your lesson, then?-Boy, what say you?
Boy. I say, my lord, that if I were a man,

Their mother's bed-chamber should not be safe
For these bad bondmen to the yoke of Rome.

Marc. Ay, that's my boy! thy father hath full oft

For his ungrateful country done the like.

Boy. And, uncle, so will I, an if I live. Tit. Come, go with me into mine armory; Lucius, I'll fit thee; and withal, my boy, Shalt (6) carry from me to the empress' sons Presents that I intend to send them both:

Come, come; thou'lt do thy message, wilt thou not?

Boy. Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, grandsire.
Tit. No, boy, not so; I'll teach thee another course.
Lavinia, come.-Marcus, look to my house :
Lucius and I'll go brave it at the court;

Ay, marry, will we, sir; and we'll be waited on.

[Exeunt Titus, Lavinia, and Boy.

Marc. O heavens, can you hear a good man groan,
And not relent, or not compassion him?-
Marcus, attend him in his ecstasy,

That hath more scars of sorrow in his heart
Than foemen's marks upon his batter'd shield;
But yet so just that he will not revenge :-
Revenge, ye (65) heavens, for old Andronicus!

[Exit.

SCENE II. The same. A room in the palace.

Enter, from one side, AARON, DEMETRIUS, and CHIRON; from the other side, young Lucius, and an Attendant, with a bundle of weapons, and verses writ upon them.

Chi. Demetrius, here's the son of Lucius;
He hath some message to deliver us.

Aar. Ay, some mad message from his mad grandfather.
Boy. My lords, with all the humbleness I may,

I greet your honours from Andronicus,-
And pray the Roman gods confound you both!

[Aside.

Dem. Gramercy, lovely Lucius: what's the news? Boy. That you are both decipher'd, that's the news, For villains mark'd with rape [aside].-May it please you, My grandsire, well advis'd, hath sent by me The goodliest weapons of his armory

To gratify your honourable youth,

The hope of Rome; for so he bade me say;

And so I do, and with his gifts present

Your lordships, that, (6) whenever you have need,

You may be armèd and appointed well:

And so I leave you both,-like bloody villains [aside].

[Exeunt Boy and Attendant.

Dem. What's here? A scroll; and written round about? Let's see :

[Reads] "Integer vitæ, scelerisque purus,

Non eget Mauri jaculis, nec arcu."

Chi. O, 'tis a verse in Horace; I know it well :

I read it in the grammar long ago.

Aar. Ay, just, a verse in Horace ;-right, you have it.—

Now, what a thing it is to be an ass!

[Aside.

Here's no sound jest! the old man hath found their guilt;

And sends them weapons wrapp'd about with lines,

That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick.

But were our witty empress well a-foot,
She would applaud Andronicus' conceit:
But let her rest in her unrest awhile.—
And now, young lords, was't not a happy star
Led us to Rome, strangers, and more than so,
Captives, to be advanced to this height?
It did me good, before the palace gate
To brave the tribune in his brother's hearing.
Dem. But me more good, to see so great a lord
Basely insinuate and send us gifts.

Aar. Had he not reason, Lord Demetrius?
Did you not use his daughter very friendly?

Dem. I would we had a thousand Roman dames At such a bay, by turn to serve our lust.

Chi. A charitable wish and full of love.

Aar. Here lacks but your mother for to say amen.
Chi. And that would she for twenty thousand more.
Dem. Come, let us go; and pray to all the gods
For our beloved mother in her pains.

Aar. Pray to the devils; the gods have given us over.
[Aside.-Flourish within.

Dem. Why do the emperor's trumpets flourish thus?
Chi. Belike, for joy the emperor hath a son.

Dem. Soft! who comes here?

Enter a Nurse, with a blackamoor Child in her arms.
Nur.
Good morrow, lords:

O, tell me, did you see Aaron the Moor?

Aar. Well, more or less, or ne'er a whit at all, Here Aaron is; and what with Aaron now?

Nur. O gentle Aaron, we are all undone !

Now help, or woe betide thee evermore!

Aar. Why, what a caterwauling dost thou keep! What dost thou wrap and fumble in thine arms?

Nur. O, that which I would hide from heaven's eye,