If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad,
Threatning the welkin with his big-fwoll'n face?
And wilt thou have a reafon 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 fighs,
Then must my earth with her continual tears
Become a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd:
For why, my bowels cannot hide her woes,
But, like a drunkard, muft I vomit them;
Then give me leave, for lofers will have leave
To eafe their ftomachs with their bitter tongues.
Enter a Meffenger, bringing in two heads and a hand.
Mef. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repay'd
For that good hand thou fent'st 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 sport, 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 miseries are more than may be borne!
To weep with them that weep doth cafe 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 fhrink 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 bloodlefs; and thy brother I,
Even like a ftony image, cold and numb.
Ah! now no more will I controul thy griefs;
Rend off thy filver hair, thy other hand
Gnawing with thy teeth, and be this dismal fight
The clofing up of your moft wretched eyes!
Now is a time to ftorm, why art thou ftill?
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 these two heads do feem to speak to me,
And threat me, I fhall never come to blifs,
'Till all thefe mifchiefs 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 employ'd 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 raife 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. The woful't man that ever liv'd in Rome;
Luc. AREWEL, Andronicus, my noble father,"
Farewel, proud Rome; 'till Lucius 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 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.
An Apartment in Titus's Houfe.
A BANQUET.
Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and young Lucius, a
Boy.
Tit. So, fo, now fit; and look, you eat no more
Than will preferve juft fo much ftrength in us,
As will revenge these 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 breast;
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 woe, that thus doth talk in figns!
When thy poor heart beats with outragious beating,
Thou canst not flrike it thus to make it ftill;
Wound it with fighing, girl, kill it with groans;
Or get fome little knife between thy teeth,
And just 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. 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 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 Æneas tell the tale twice o'er,
How Troy was burnt, and he made miferable?
O handle not the theme; no talk of hands,-
Left we remember still, that we have none.
Fie, fie, how franticly I fquare my talk,
As if we should forget we had no hands,
If Marcus did not name the word of hands?
Come, let's fall to, and, gentle girl, eat this.
Here is no drink: hark, Marcus, what fhe fays,
I can interpret all her martyr'd figns;
She fays, the drinks no other drink but tears,
Brew'd with her forrows, mefh'd upon her cheeks:
Speechlefs complaint !—O, I will learn thy thought;
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect,
As begging hermits in their holy prayers.
Thou shalt not figh, nor hold thy ftumps to heav'n,
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a fign,
But I, of thefe, will reft an alphabet,
And by still practice learn to know thy meaning.
Boy. Good grandfire, leave these bitter, deep, la-
Make my Aunt merry with fome pleafing tale.
Mur. Alas, the tender boy, in paffion mov'd,
Doth weep to fee his grandfire's heaviness.
Tit. Peace, tender fapling; thou art made of tears, And tears will quickly melt thy life away.
[Marcus ftrikes the dish with a knife. What doft 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
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
How would he hang his flender gilded wings,
And buz lamenting Doings in the air?
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 myfelf, as if it were the Moor
Come hither purposely to poifon me.
There's for thyfelf, and that's for Tamora:
Yet ftill, I think, we are not brought fo 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 falfe fhadows for true fubftances.
Come, take away; Lavinia, go with me;
I'll to thy clofet, and go read with thee
Sad ftories, 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.
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