Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks,
Be pitiful to my condemned fons,

Whose fouls are not corrupted, as 'tis thought.
For two-and-twenty fons I never wept,

Because they died in Honour's lofty bed.

[Andronicus lieth down, and the judges pass by him. For thefe, thefe, Tribunes, in the duft I write My heart's deep languor, and my foul's fad tears;! Let my tears flanch the earth's dry appetite, My fons' fweet blood will make it shame and blush. O earth! I will befriend thee more with rain, [Exeunt. That fhall diftil from thefe two ancient urns, Than youthful April fhall with all his showers; In fummer's drought I'll drop upon thee ftill; In winter, with warm tears I'll melt the fnow; And keep eternal fpring-time on thy face, So thou refuse to drink my dear fons' blood.

Enter Lucius with his fword drawn.

Oh, reverend Tribunes! gentle aged men!
Unbind my fons, reverse the doom of death,
And let me fay, that never wept before,
My tears are now prevailing orators.

Luc. Oh, noble father, you lament in vain;
The Tribunes hear you not, no man is by,
And you recount your forrows to a stone.

Tit. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead.Grave Tribunes, once more I intreat of you-Luc. My gracious Lord, no Tribune hears you fpeak

Tit. Why, 'tis no matter, man; if they did hear, They would not mark me; or, if they did mark, They would not pity me.

Therefore I tell my forrows to the ftones,
Who, tho' they cannot answer my distress,

two ancient urns. Oxford Editor.-Vulg. two ancient ruins.

Yet

Yet in fome fort they're better than the Tribunes,
For that they will not intercept my tale;
When I do weep, they humbly at my feet
Receive my tears, and feem to weep with me;
And were they but attired in grave weeds,
Rome could afford no Tribune like to thefe.

A ftone is foft as wax, Tribunes more hard than stones?
A ftone is filent, and offendeth not,

And Tribunes with their tongues doom men to death.
But wherefore ftand'ft thou with thy weapon drawn?
Luc. To refcue my two brothers from their death;
For which attempt, the judges have pronounc'd
My everlasting doom of banishment.

Tit. O happy man, they have befriended thee:
Why, foolish Lucius, doft thou not perceive,
That Rome is but a wilderness of Tygers;
Tygers must prey, and Rome affords no prey
But me and mine; how happy art thou then,
From thefe devourers to be banished?
But who comes with our brother Marcus here?

SCENE II.

Enter Marcus, and Lavinia.

Mar. Titus, prepare thy noble eyes to weep, Or, if not fo, thy noble heart to break;

I bring confuming forrow to thine age.

Tit. Will it confume me? let me fee it then. - Mar. This was thy daughter.

Tit. Why, Marcus, fo fhe is."

Luc. Ah me! this object kills me.

Tit. Faint-hearted boy, arife and look upon her; Speak, my Lavinia, what accurfed hand

6

Hath made thee handlefs, in thy father's fight?
What fool hath added water to the fea?.

-in thy father's fight?] We should read, pight. WARB.

Or

Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy?
My grief was at the height before thou cam'ft,
And now, like Nilus, it difdaineth bounds.

Give me a fword, I'll chop off my hands too,
For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain,
And they have nurs'd this woe, in feeding life,
In bootlefs prayer have they been held up,
And they have ferv'd me to effectlefs ufe;
Now all the fervice I require of them,
Is that the one will help to cut the other.
'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands,
For hands to do Rome fervice are but vain.

Luc. Speak, gentle fifter, who hath martyr'd thee? Mar. Ô, that delightful engine of her thoughts, That blab'd them with fuch pleafing eloquence, Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage, Where, like a fweet melodious bird, it fung Sweet various notes, inchanting every ear!

Luc. Oh, fay thou for her, who hath done this deed? Mar. O, thus I found her ftraying in the park, Seeking to hide herself; as doth the deer, That hath receiv'd fome unrecuring wound.

Tit. It was my Deer; and he, that wounded her,
Hath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead;
For now I ftand, as one upon a rock,
Environ'd with a wildernefs of fea,

Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave;
Expecting ever when fome envious furge

Will in his brinifh bowels fwallow him.
This way to death my wretched fons are gone,
Here ftands my other fon, a banish'd man;
And here my brother, weeping at my woes.
But that which gives my foul the greatest spurn,
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than

7 It was my Deer;] The play upon Deer and dear has been ufed by Waller, who calls a la

my foul..

Had I but feen thy picture in this plight,
It would have madded me. What fhall I do,
Now I behold thy lovely body fo?

Thou haft no hands to wipe away thy tears,
Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyr'd thee;
Thy husband he is dead; and for his death
Thy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this.
Look, Marcus! ah, fon Lucius, look on her :
When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears
Stood on her cheeks; as doth the honey-dew
Upon a gather'd lily almoft wither'd.

Mar. Perchance, the weeps because they kill'd her husband.

Perchance, because she knows them innocent.

Tit. If they did kill thy hufband, then be joyful,
Because the law hath ta'en revenge on them.
No, no, they would not do fo foul a deed;
Witness the forrow, that their fifter makes.
Gentle Lavinia, let me kifs thy lips,

Or make fome figns how I may do thee eafe.
Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius,
And thou, and I, fit round about fome fountain,
Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks,
How they are ftain'd like meadows yet not dry
With miry flime left on them by a flood?
And in the fountain fhall we gaze fo long,
'Till the fresh tafte be taken from that clearness,
And made a brine pit with our bitter tears?
Or fhall we cut away our hands like thine?
Or fhall we bite our tongues, and in dumb fhows
Pass the remainder of our hateful days?

What shall we do? let us, that have our tongues,
Plot fome device of further misery,

To make us wondred at in time to come.

1

Luc. Sweet father, ceafe your tears; for, at your

grief,

See, how my wretched fifter fobs and weeps.

Mar

Mar. Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine

eyes.

Tit. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! brother, well I wot, Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,

For thou, poor man, haft drown'd it with thine own.
Luc. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.
Tit. Mark, Marcus, mark; I understand her signs;
Had the a tongue to speak, now would she say
That to her brother which I faid to thee.
His napkin, with his true tears all bewet,
Can do no service on her forrowful cheeks.
Oh, what a fympathy of woe is this!
As far from help as Limbo is from bliss.

Aar. Titus Andronicus, my Lord the Emperor
Sends thee this word; that if thou love thy fons,
Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyfelf, old Titus,
Or any one of you, chop off your hand,
And fend it to the King; he for the fame
Will fend thee hither both thy fons alive,
And that shall be the ransom for their fault.
Tit. Oh, gracious Emperor! oh, gentle Aaron!
Did ever raven fing fo like a lark,
That gives sweet tidings of the Sun's uprise?
With all my heart, I'll fend the Emperor my
Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off?

hand;

Luc. Stay, father, for that noble hand of thine, That hath thrown down fo many enemies, Shall not be fent; my hand will ferve the turn. My youth can better fpare my blood than you, And therefore mine fhall fave my brothers' lives. Mar. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome, And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-ax,