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Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here;
Thy other banish'd son with this dear fight
Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother I,
Even like a ftony image, cold and numb.
Ah! now no more will I controal thy griefs; (11)
Rend off thy filver hair, thy other hand
Gnawing with thy teeth, and be this dismal fight
The closing up of your most wretched eyes !
Now is a time to ftorm, why art thou still ?

Tit. Ha, ha, ha!
Mar. Why dost thou laugh! it fits not with this hour.

Tit. Why, I have not another tear to thed;
Besides, this forrow is an enemy,
And would usurp upon my watry 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 thefe things; 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.

(11) Ab, now no more will I controul my Griefs';). I read, eby Griefs. Marcus had before persuaded Titus to be temperate and restrain the Excess of his Sorrows : but now, Says be, that so miserable an Object is presented to your Sight, as a dear Daughter so heinously abus'd, e'en indulge your Sorrows till they put an end to your miserable Life,

Manet

Manet Lucius.

Luc. Farewel, Andronicus, my noble father, The wofull man that ever liv'd in Rome ; Farewel, proud Rumia ; 'till Lucius come again, He leaves his pledges dealer than his life; Farewel, Lazinin, my noble filter, O, 'would thou wert as thou tofore haft been ! But now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives, But in oblivion and hatefui 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

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SCENE, an Apartment in Titus's House.

A BANQUET. Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and young Lucius,

a Boy. Tit. TO, so, now fit ;. and look, you eat no more

Than will preserve just so much strength in us, As will revenge thefe bitter woes of ours. Marcus, unknit that forrow-wreathen knot; Thy neice 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 breast; 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 woe, 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 sighing, girl, kill it with groans ; Or

get some little knife between thy teeth, And just against thy heart make thou a hole,

That

That all the tears, that thy poor eyes let fall,
May run into that sink, and soaking in,
Drown the lamenting fool in sea-sält 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 should be mad but I; What violent hands can she 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 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 hånds? 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, she drinks no other drink but tears, Brew'd with her sorrows, niefh'd upon her cheeks. Speechless complaint!-O, I will learn thy thought; In thy dumb action will I be as perfect, As begging hermits in their holy prayers. Thou Ihalt 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 still practice learn to know thy meaning: Boy. Good grandfire, leave these bitter, deep, la

ments; Make my Aunt merry with some pleasing tale.

Mar. Alas, the tender boy, in pasion mov'd, Doth weep to see his grandfire's heaviness.

Tit. Peace, tender [apling; thou art made of tears, And tears will quickly melt thy life away

[Marcus firikes the dish with a knife. What dost thou strike at, Mercus, with thy knife?

Mar. At That that I have kill'd, my lord, a fly.

Tit. Out on thee, murderer; thoa kill'It my heart; Mine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny:

A deed

A deed of death done on the innocent
Becomes not Titus brother ; get thee gone,
I see, 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 slender gilded wings,
And buz lamenting Dolings in the air ? (12)
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 Ay,
Like to the Empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd 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 hither purposely to poison me.
There's for thy self; and that's for Tamora:
Yet still, 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 so wrought on him,
He takes false shadows for true substances.
Come, take
away; Lavinia, go

with me;
I'll to thy closet, and go read with thee
Sad stories, 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.

1

(12) And buz lamenting Doings in the Air.] Lamenting Doings is a very idle Expression, and conveys no Idea. The Alteration, which I have made, tho’ it is but the Addition of a single Letter, is a great Increase to the Sense: and tho', indeed, there is somewhat of a Tautology in the Epitbet and Subftantive annext to it, yet that's no new Thing with our Author.

ACT

ACT

IV.

SCENE, Titus's House.

Enter young Lucius, and Lavinia running after him ;

and the boy flies from her, with his books under bis arm. Enter Titus, and Marcus.

BOY.
ELP, grandfire, help; my Aunt Lavinia

H , .

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 neice Lavinia by these signs?

Tit. Fear thou not, Lucius, somewhat doth the mean:
See, Lucius, fee, how much she makes of thee:
Some whither 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 oratory :
Can'ft thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus ?

Boy. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,
Unless fome fit or frenzie 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 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 flie,
Causeless, perhaps ; but pardon me, sweet Aunt;

And,

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