תמונות בעמוד

If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad,
Threatning the welkin with his big-swoll'n face?
And wilt thou have a reason for this coil ?
I am the sea; hark, how her fighs do blow;
She is the weeping welkin, I the earth:
Then must my sea be moved with her sighs,
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, must I vomit them;
Then give me leave, for losers will have leave
To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.
Enter a Mesenger, bringing in two heads and a hand.

Mef. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repay'd
For that good hand thou lent'st the Emperor ;
Here are the heads of ihy two noble fons,
And here's thy hand in scorn to thee fent back;
Thy grief's their sport, thy resolution mockt:
That woe is me to think upon thy woes,
More than remembrance of my father's death. [Exit.

Mar. Now let hot Ætna 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 case fome deal,
But sorrow flouted at is double death.
Luc. Ah, that this fight should make so deep a

And yet detefted life not shrink thereat ;
That ever death should let life bear his name,
Where life hath no more interest but to breathe.

Mar. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless,
As frozen water to a starved snake.

Tit. When will this fearful flumber have an end ? Mar. Now, farewel, flattery! die, Andronicus ; Thon doft not slumber; see, thy two sons' heads, Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here; Thy other banish'd son with this dear fight


Siruck pale and bloodless; and thy brother I,
Even like a stony 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 light
The closing up of your most wretched eyes !
Now is a time to storm, why art thou still?

Tit. Ha, ha, ha!
Mar. Why dost thou laugh ? it fits not with this

Tit. Why, I have not another tear to shed;
Besides, this sorrow is an enemy,
And would usurp upon my watry eyes,
And make them blind with tributary tears;
Then which way shall I find Revenge's Cave ?
For these two heads do seem to speak to me,
And threat me, I shall never come lo bliss,
'Till all these rischiefs be return'd again,
Even in their throats that have committed them.
Come, let me see, what task I have to do
You heavy people, circle me about;
That I may turn me to each one of

And swear 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 Malt be employ'd in these things ;
Bear thou my hand, sweet 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
And if you

me, as I think

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

there ; do,


Manet Lucius.
PAREWEL, 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 ihou 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.

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An Apartment in Titus's House.

Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and young Lucius, a

Tit. O, fo, now fit; and look, you eat no more

Than will preserve just so much strength in us,
As will revenge these bitter woes of ours.
Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot ;
Thy Niece 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.-

map of woe, that thus doth talk in signs !
When thy poor heart beats with outragious beating,
Thou canst not strike it thus to make it ftill;
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,
May run into that sink, and soaking in,


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Drown the lamenting fool in sea-falt tears.

Mar. Fie, brother, fie, teach her not thus to lay Such violent hands upon her tender life.

Tit. How now! has Torrow made thee doat already? Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I; What violent hands can she lay on her life? Ah, wherefore dost 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 theme; no talk of hands, Left we remember still, that we have none. Fie, fie, how franticly I square 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, cat this. Here is no drink: hark, Marcus, what she says, I can interpret all her martyr'd signs; She says, she drinks no other drink but tears, Brew'd with her sorrows, mesh'd upon her cheeks : Speechless complaint !-0, 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 stumps to heav'n, Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign, But I, of these, will rest 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.

. Mur. Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov'd, Doth weep to see his grandfire's heaviness.

Tit. Peace, tender lapling; thou art made of tears, And tears will quickly melt thy life away.

Marcus strikes the dish with a knife. What dost thou strike 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:


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A deed of death done on the innocent
Becomes not Titus' brother; get thee gone,
I fee, thou art not for my company.

Mar. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.
Įit. But ?

how if that fly had a father and
How would he hang his slender gilded wings,
And buz lamenting Doings in the air ?
Poor harmless fly,
That with his pretty buzzing melody,
Came here to make us merry ;
And thou hast kill'd him.
Mar. Pardon me, Sir, it was a black ill-favour'd

fly, Like to the Empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him.

Tit. 0, 0, 0, Then pardon me for reprehending thee, For thou hast done a charitable deed; Give me thy knife, I will insult on him, Flattering myself, as if it were the Moor Come hither purposely to poison me. There's for thyself, and that's for Tamora : Yet still, 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 so wrought on

him, He takes false shadows for true substances. Come, take away; Lavinia, go with me ; I'll to thy closet, and go read with thee Sad stories, 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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