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Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here;
Tit. Ha, ha, ha!
Tit. Why, I have not another tear to thed;
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,
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
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 all the tears, that thy poor eyes let fall,
Mar. Fie, brother, fie, teach her not thus to lay
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 of death done on the innocent
Mar. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.
Mar. Pardon me, Sir, it was a black ill-favour'd Ay,
Tit. O, O, O,
Mar. Alas, poor man, grief has so wrought on him,
(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.
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.
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:
Boy. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,