« הקודםהמשך »
Tygers must prey, and Rome affords no prey
S CE N E II.
Enter Marcus, and Lavinia.
Or, if not so, thy noble heart to break:
Tit. Will it consume me ? let me see it then.
Tit. Faint-hearted boy, arise and look upon her:
Luc. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr'd thee?
Mar. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts, That blab’d them with such pleasing eloquence, Is torn from forth that
hollow cage, Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung Sweet various notes, inchanting every ear!
Luc. O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed? * in thy father's fight] Wc should read spight,
Mar. O, thus I found her straying in the park,
Tit. It was my Deer; and he, that wounded her,
wretched sons are gone;'
soul. Had I but seen thy picture in this plight, It would have madded me. What shall I do, Now I behold thy lovely body so? Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy tears, Nor tongue to tell me who hath mariyr’d thee; Thy hulband he is dead; and for his death Thy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this. Look, Marcus! ah, son Lucius, look on her: When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears Stood on her cheeks; as doth the honey-dew Upon a gathei'd lily almost wither'd. Mar. Perchance, she weeps because 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 so foul a deed ; Witness the sorrow, that their lifter makes. Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips, Or make some signs how I may do thçe ease: Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius, And thou and I, fit round about some fountain, Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks,
How they are stain'd like meadows yet not dry
Luc. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.
Tit. Mark, Marcus, mark; I understand her signs ;
S CEN E III.
And that shall be the ransom for their fault.
Tit. Oh, gracious Emperor! oh, gentle Aaron! Did ever raven sing so like a lark, That gives sweet tidings of the Sun's uprise ? 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 so many enemies, Shall not be sent; my hand will serve the turn. My youth can better spare my blood than you, And therefore mine shall fave my brothers' lives.
Mar. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome, And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-ax Writing Destruction on the enemies' Castle ? Oh, none of Both but are of high defert: My hand hath been but idle, let it serve To ransom my two Nephews from their death; Then have I kept it to a worthy end.
Aar. Nay, come, agree, whose hand shall go along, For fear they die before their Pardon come.
Mar. My hand shall go.
Luc. Sweet father, if I shall 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 shew a brother's love to thee.
Tit. Agree between you, I will spare my hand.
[Exeunt 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 honest,
And that, you'll say, ere half an hour pafs. [Aside.
[He cuts of Titus's hand, Enter Lucius and Marcus again. Tit. Now ftay your strife; what shall be, is dis
my sons, say, 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 villany (Aside. Doth fat me with the very thought of it! Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace, Aaron, will have his soul black like his face. [Exit.
Tit. Hear! I lift this one hand up to heav'n,
And bow this feeble ruin to the earth; any Power pities wretched tears, To that I call: What, wilt thou kneel with me? Do then, dear heart, for heav'n shall hear our prayers, Or with our sighs we'll breathe the welkin dim, And stain the sun with fogs, as sometime clouds, When they do hug him in their melting bosoms.
Mar. Oh! brother, speak with possibilities, And do not break into these woe-extremes.
Tit. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom ? Then be my paflions bottomless with them.
Mar. But yet let reason govern thy Lament.
Tit. If there were reason for these miseries, Then into limits could I bind my woes. When heav'n doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow?