A C T III.
SCENE, a Street in Rome.
Enter the fudges and Senators, with Marcus and Quintus bound, palling on the stage to the place of execution, and Titus going before, pleading.
EAR me, grave fathers; noble Tribunes, stay,
For pity of mine age, whofe youth was spent
In dangerous wars, whilft you fecurely flept:
For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel fhed,
For all the frofty nights that I have watcht,
And for thefe bitter tears, which you now fee
Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks,
Be pitiful to my condemned fons,
Whofe fouls are not corrupted, as 'tis thought.
For two and twenty fons I never wept,
Because they died in honour's lofty bed.
[Andronicus lieth down, and the judges pafs by him.
For thefe, thefe, Tribunes, in the duft I write
My heart's deep langour, and my foul's fad tears:
Let my tears flanch the earth's dry appetite,
My fons' fweet blood will make it fhame and blush :
O earth! I will befriend thee more with rain, [Exeunt.
That shall diftil from these two ancient ruins,
Than youthful April fhall with all his fhowers ;
In fummer's drought I'll drop upon thee ftill;
In winter, with warm tears I'll melt the fnow;
And keep eternal fpring-time on thy face,
So thou refufe to drink my dear fons' blood.
Enter Lucius with his word drawn.
Oh, reverend Tribunes! gentle aged men!
Unbind my fons, reverfe the doom of death :
And let me fay, (that never wept before)
My tears are now prevailing orators.
Luc. Oh, noble father, you lament in vain;
The Tribunes hear you not, no man is by ;
And you recount your forrows to a stone.
Tit. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead ;Grave Tribunes, once more I intreat of you
Luc. My gracious Lord, no Tribune hears you fpeak. Tit. Why, 'tis no matter, man; if they did hear, They would not mark me; or, if they did mark, They would not pity me.
Therefore, I tell my forrows to the stones,
Who, tho' they cannot answer my distress,
Yet in fome fort they're better than the Tribunes,
For that they will not intercept my tale;
When I do weep, they humbly at my feet
Receive my tears, and feem to weep with me;
And were they but attired in grave weeds,
Rome could afford no Tribune like to these.
A ftone is foft as wax, Tribunes more hard than ftones:
A ftone is filent, and offendeth not,
And Tribunes with their tongues doom men to death.
But wherefore ftand't thou with thy weapon drawn?
Luc. To refcue my two brothers from their death;
For which attempt, the judges have pronounc'd
My everlafting doom of banishment.
Tit. O happy man, they have befriended thee:
Why, foolish Lucius, doft thou not perceive,
That Rome is but a wilderness of tygers:
Tygers muft prey, and Rome affords no prey
But me and mine; how happy art thou then,
From these devourers to be banished ?
But who comes with our brother Marcus here?
Enter Marcus, and Lavinia.
Mar. Titus, prepare thy noble eyes to weep, Or, if not fo, thy noble heart to break :
I bring confuming forrow to thine age.
Tit. Will it confume me? let me fee it then.
Mar. This was thy daughter.
Tit. Why, Marcus, fo the is.
Luc. Ah me! this object kills me.
Tit. Faint-hearted boy, arife and look upon her: Speak, my Lavinia, what accurfed hand
Hath made thee handlefs, in thy father's fpight? (9)
What fool hath added water to the fea?
Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy?
My grief was at the height before thou cam'ft,
And now, like Nilus, it difdaineth bounds:
Give me a fword, I'll chop off my
hands too,
For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain:
And they have nurs'd this woe, in feeding life:
In bootlefs prayer have they been held up,
And they have ferv'd me to effectlefs use.
Now all the fervice I require of them,
Is that the one will help to cut the other:
'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou haft no hands,
For hands to do Rome fervice are but vain.
Luc. Speak, gentle fifter, who hath martyr'd thee?
Mar. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts,
That blab'd them with fuch pleafing eloquence,
Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage,
Where, like a fweet melodious bird, it fung
Sweet various notes, inchanting every ear!
Luc. Oh, fay thou for her, who hath done this deed? Mar. O, thus I fo ind her ftraying in the park, Seeking to hide herfelf; as doth the deer, That hath receiv'd fome unrecuring wound.
Tit. It was my deer; and he, that wounded her, Hath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead:
Hath made thee handlefs in thy Father's Sight?] But though Lavinia appeared handlefs in her Father's Prefence, the was not made fo in his Sight. And if that be the true Reading, it can at beft bear but this poor Meaning, What curfed Hand hath robbed thee of thy Hands, for thy Father to fee thee in that Condition? The flight Alteration, I have given, adds a much more reasonable Complaint, and aggravates the Sentiment. What curfed Hand hath robbed thee of thy Hands, only in Defpight to thy Father, only to encrease
For now I ftand as one upon a rock,
Environ'd with a wilderness of sea,
Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave;
Expecting ever when fome envious furge
Will in his brinifh bowels fwallow him.
This way to death my wretched fons are gone:
Here ftands my other fon, a banish'd man;
And here my brother, weeping at my woes.
But that, which gives my foul the greateft fpurn,
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my foul.
Had I but feen thy picture in this plight,
It would have madded me. What fhall I do,
Now I behold thy lovely body fo.?.
Thou haft no hands to wipe away thy tears,
Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyr'd thee;
Thy husband he is dead; and for his death
Thy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this.
Look, Marcus! ah, fon Lucius, look on her :
When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears
Stood on her cheeks; as doth the honey-dew
Upon a gather'd lily almoft wither'd.
Mar. Perchance, the weeps, becaufe they kill'd her husband.
Perchance, because she knows them innocent.
Tit. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful,
Because the law hath ta'en revenge on them,
No, no, they would not do fo foul a deed;
Witness the forrow, that their fifter makes.
Gentle Lavinia, let me kifs thy lips,
Or make fome figns how I may do thee ease:
Shall thy good Uncle, and thy brother Lucius,
And thou, and I, fit round about fome fountain,
Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks,
How they are ftain'd like meadows yet not dry
With miry flime left on them by a flood?
And in the fountain fhall we gaze fo long,
"Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness,
And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears?
Or fhall we cut away our hands like thine ?
Or fhall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows
Pafs the remainder of our hateful days?
What shall we do? let us that have our tongues,
Plot fome device of further misery,
To make us wondred at in time to come.
Luc. Sweet father, ceafe your tears; for, at your grief, See, how my wretched fifter fobs and weeps.
Mar. Patience, dear Niece; good Titus, dry thine eyes.
Tit. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! brother, well I wot,
Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,
For thou, poor man, haft drown'd it with thine own.
Luc. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.
Tit. Mark, Marcus, mark; I understand her figns ;
Had the a tongue to fpeak, now would fhe fay
That to her brother which I faid to thee.
His napkin, with his true tears all bewet,
Can do no fervice on her forrowful cheeks.
Oh, what a fympathy of woe is this!
As far from help as Limbo is from blifs.
Aar. Titus Andronicus, my Lord the Emperor
Sends thee this word; that if thou love thy fons,
Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyfelf, old Titus,
Or any one of you, chop off your hand,
And fend it to the King; he for the fame
Will fend thee hither both thy fons alive,
And that fhall be the ranfom for their fault.
Tit. Oh, gracious Emperor! oh, gentle Aaron!
Did ever raven fing fo like a lark,
That gives fweet tidings of the fun's uprife?
With all my heart, I'll send the Emperor my hand;
Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off?
Luc. Stay, father, for that noble hand of thine,
That hath thrown down fo many enemies,
Shall not be fent; my hand will ferve the turn.
My youth can better fpare my blood than you,
And therefore mine fhall fave my brothers' lives.
Mar. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome,
And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-ax,
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