Writing deftruction on the enemies' cafque ? (10)
Oh, none of both but are of high defert:
My hand hath been but idle, let it ferve

To ransom my two Nephews from their death;
Then have I kept it to a worthy end.

Aar. Nay, come, agree, whofe hand fhall go along, For fear they die before their pardon come. Mar. My hand fhall go.

Luc. By heav'n, it shall not go,

Tit. Sirs, ftrive no more, fuch wither'd herbs as thefe Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.. Luc. Sweet father, if I fhall be thought thy son, Let me redeem my brothers both from death.

Mar. And for our father's fake, and mother's care, Now let me fhew a brother's love to thee.

Tit. Agree between you, I will fpare my hand.
Luc. Then I'll go fetch an ax.

Mar. But I will ufe the ax. [Exe. Lucius and Marcus.
Tit. Come hither, Aaron, I'll deceive them both,
Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine.
Aar. If that be call'd deceit, I will be honeft,
And never, whilft I live, deceive men fo.

But I'll deceive you in another fort,
And that, you'll say, ere half an hour pafs.

[Afide.

[He cuts off Titus's hand,

(10) Which of your Hands hath not defended Rome, And rear'd aloft the bloody Battle-axe,

Writing Deftruction on the Enemies' Caftle ] This is a Paffage, which fhew's a most wonderful Sagacity in our Editors. They could not, fure, intend an Improvement of the Art Military, by teaching us that it was ever a Custom to hew down Caffles with the Battle-Axe. Or could they have a Defign to tell us, that they wore Cafiles formerly on their heads for defenfive Armour? I ventured, fome time ago, to correct the Passage thus;

Writing Destruction on the Enemies' Cafk.

i. e. an Helmet; from the French Word, une Cafque. A broken k in the Manufcript might easily be mistaken for tl, and thus a Caftle was built at once. But as I think it is much more feifible to split an Helmet with a Battle-ax, than to cut down a Caffle with it, I fhall continue to ftand by my Emendation.

K 4

Enter

Tit. Now ftay your ftrife; what shall be, is dispatch'd:
Good Aaron, give his Majefty my hand:
Tell him, it was a hand that warded him
From thousand dangers, bid him bury it :
More hath it merited; that let it have.
As for my fons, fay, I account of them
As jewels purchas'd at an easy price;

And yet dear too, because I bought mine own.
Aar. I go, Andronicus; and for thy hand
Look by and by to have thy fons with thee:

Their heads, I mean.-Oh, how this villainy [Afide.
Doth fat me with the very thought of it!

Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace,
Aaron will have his foul black like his face.

[Exit.

Tit. O hear! I lift this one hand up to heav'n, And bow this feeble ruin to the earth;

If any Power pities wretched tears,

To that I call :What, wilt thou kneel with me?
Do then, dear heart, for heav'n fhall hear our prayers,
Or with our fighs we'll breathe the welkin dim,
And ftain the fun with fogs, as fometime clouds,
When they do hug him in their melting bofoms.
Mar. Oh! brother, fpeak with poffibilities, o
And do not break into thefe deep extremes.

Tit. Is not my forrow deep, having no bottom?
Then be my paffions bottomlefs with them.
Mar. But yet let reafon govern thy lament.
it. If there were reafon for thefe miferies,
Then into limits could I bind my woes.

When heav'n doth weep, Idoth, not the earth o'erflow ?.
If the winds rage, doth not the fea wax mad,
Threatning the welkin with his big-fwol'n face?
And wilt thou have a ranfom for this coil ?

I am the fea; hark, how her fighs do blow;
She is the weeping welkin, I the earth:
Then muft my fea be moved with her highs,
Then must my earth with her continual tears.

Become

Become a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd:
For why, my bowels cannot hide her woes,
But, like a drunkard, must I vomit them;
Then give me leave, for lofers will have leave
To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.

Enter a Messenger, bringing in two heads and a band.

Mef. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repay'd
For that good hand thou fent'ft the Emperor;
Here are the heads of thy two noble fons,
And here's thy hand in fcorn to thee fent back;
Thy grief's their fport, thy refolution mockt:
That woe is me to think upon thy woes,

More than remembrance of my father's death. [Exit.
Mar. Now let hot Etna cool in Sicily,

And be my heart an ever-burning hell;
These miferies are more than may be borne !
To weep with them that weep doth ease fome deal,
But forrow flouted at is double death.

Luc. Ah, that this fight fhould make fo deep a wound,

And yet detefted life not shrink thereat ;
That ever death fhould let life bear his name,
Where life hath no more intereft but to breathe.
Mar. Alas, poor heart, that kifs is comfortless,
As frozen water to a ftarved fnake.

Tit. When will this fearful flumber have an end ?
Mar. Now, farewel, flattery! die, Andronicus;
Thou doft not flumber; fee, thy two fons' heads,
Thy warlike hand; thy mangled daughter here;
Thy other banifh'd fon 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 controll thy griefs; (13)

4

(11) Ab, now no more will I controll my Griefs;] I read, ----- thy Griefs. Marcus had before perfuaded Titus to be temperate and reftrain the Excefs of bis Sorrows: but now, fays be, that fo miferable an Object is prefented to your Sight as a dear Daughter fo heinously abus'd, e'en indulge your Sorrows till they put an end to your miferable Life.

K 5

Rend

Rend off thy filver hair, thy other hand
Gnawing with thy teeth, and be this difmal fight
The clofing up of your most wretched eyes!
Now is a time to ftorm, why art thou still ?
Tit. Ha, ha, ha!.

Mar. Why doft thou laugh? it fits not with this hour.
Tit. Why, I have not another tear to shed;
Befides, this forrow is an enemy,

And would ufurp upon my watry eyes,
And make them blind with tributary tears;
Then which way fhall I find Revenge's cave?
For thefe two heads do feem to fpeak to me,
And threat me, I fhall never come to blifs,
"Till all these mischiefs be return'd again,
Even in their throats that have committed them.
Come, let me fee, what task I have to do-
You heavy, people, circle me about;
That I may turn me to each one of you,
And fwear unto my foul to right your wrongs.
The vow is made -come, Brother, take a head,
And in this hand the other will I bear;

Lavinia, thou fhalt be employed in these things;
Bear thou my hand, fweet 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 Goths, and raise an army there;
And if you love me, as I think you do,

Let's kifs and part, for we have much to do. [Exeunt .

Luc. Farewel, Andronicus, my noble father,
The woful't man that ever liv'd in Rome;
Farewel, proud Rome, 'till Lucias come again,
He leaves his pledges dearer than his life;
Farewel, Lavinia, my noble fifter,

O, 'would thou wert as thou tofore haft been!
But now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives.

But in oblivion and hateful griefs;

If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs,

And

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.

SCENE, an Apartment in Titus's House.

A BANQUET.

Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and young Lucius, a Boy. Tit. CO, fo, now fit; and look, you eat no more Than will preserve juft fo much ftrength in us, As will revenge thefe bitter woes of ours.

Marcus, unknit that forrow-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 fiefh,

Then thus I thump it down.

Thou map of woe, that thus doft talk in figns!
When thy poor heart beats with outragious beating,
Thou canst not ftrike it thus to make it ftill;
Wound it with fighing, 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 fink, and foaking in,
Drown the lamenting fool in fea-falt tears.

Mar. Fy, brother, fy, 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 fhould be mad but I; What violent hands, can the lay on her life? Ah, wherefore doft thou urge the name of hand, To bid Eneas tell the tale twice o'er, How Troy was burnt, and he made miferable? O, handle not the theme: no talk of hands,

Left