Pattern'd by that the Poet here describes,
By nature made for murders and for rapes.
Mar. O, why fhould Nature build fo foul a den, Unless the Gods delight in tragedies!
Tit. Give figns, fweet Girl, for here are none but friends,
What Roman Lord it was durft do the deed;
Or flunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erft,
That left the camp to fin in Lucrece' bed?
Mar. Sit down, fweet niece; brother, fit down by
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,
Infpire me, that I may this treason find.
My Lord, look here; look here Lavinia.
[He writes his name with his staff, and guides it
- with his feet and mouth.
This fandy Plot is plain; guide, if thou canft,
This after me, when I have writ my name,
Without the help of any hand at all.
Curst be that heart, that forc'd us to this fhift!
Write thou, good niece; and here display, at least,
What God will have difcover'd for revenge;
Heav'n guide thy pen, to print thy forrows plain,
That we may know the traitors, and the truth!
[She takes the staff in her mouth, and guides it
with her ftumps, and writes.
Tit. Oh, do you read, my Lord, what she hath writ?
Stuprum, Chiron, Demetrius.
Mar. What, what!-the luftful Sons of Tamora Performers of this hateful bloody deed?
Tit. Magne Dominator Poli,
Tam lentus audis fcelera! tam lentus vides!
Mar. Oh, calm thee, gentle Lord; although I
There is enough written upon this earth,
To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts,
And arm the minds of Infants to exclaims.
My Lord, kneel down with me: Lavinia, kneel,
And kneel, fweet boy, the Roman Hector's Hope,
And swear with me, as, with the woeful peer,
And father, of that chafte difhonoured Dame,
Lord Junius Brutus fware for Lucrece' rape,
That we will profecute, by good advice,
Mortal revenge upon thefe traiterous Goths;
And fee their blood, or die with this reproach.
Tit. 'Tis fure enough, if you knew how.
But if you hurt thefe bear-whelps, then beware,
The dam will wake; and if the wind you once,
She's with the lion deeply ftill in league;
And lulls him whilft fhe playeth on her back,
And, when he fleeps, will fhe do what fhe lift.
You're a young huntfman, Marcus, let it alone;
And come, I will go get a leaf of brass,
And with a gad of steel will write these words,
And lay it by; the angry northern wind
Will blow these fands, like Sybil's leaves, abroad,
And where's your leffon then? boy, what say you?
Boy. I fay, my Lord, that if I were a man,
Their mother's bed-chamber fhould not be safe,
For thefe bad bond-men to the yoke of Rome.
Mar. Ay, that's my boy! thy father hath full oft
For this ungrateful Country done the like.
Boy. And, uncle, fo will I, an' if I live.
Tit. Come, go with me into my armoury.
Lucius, I'll fit thee; and withal, my boy
Shall carry from me to the Emprefs' fons
Prefents, that I intend to fend them both.
Come, come, thou'lt do my meffage, wilt thou not?
Boy. Ay, with my dagger in their bofom, grandfire.
Tit. No, boy, not fo; I'll teach thee another course.
Lavinia, come; Marcus, look to my House;
Lucius and I'll go brave it at the Court,
Ay, marry, will we, Sir; and we'll be waited on.
[Exeunt. Mar. O heavens, can you hear a good man groan,
And not relent, or not compaffion him?
Marcus, attend him in his ecftafy,
That hath more scars of forrow in his heart,
Than foe-mens' marks upon his batter'd fhield;
But yet fo juft, that he will not revenge;
* Revenge the Heavens for old Andronicus!
Enter Aaron, Chiron, and Demetrius at one door: and at another door youug Lucius and another, with a bundle of weapons and verfes writ upon them.
Emetrius, here's the Son of Lucius;
He hath fome mcffage to deliver us. Aar. Ay, fome mad meffage from his mad grandfather.
Boy. My Lords, with all the humbleness I may, I greet your Honours from Andronicus;
And pray the Roman Gods, confound you Both.
Dem. Gramercy, lovely Lucius, what's the news?
Boy. That you are both decypher'd (that's the news)
For villains mark'd with rape. May it please you,
My grandfire, well advis'd, hath fent by me
The goodlieft weapons of his armoury,
To gratify your honourable youth,
The hope of Rome; for fo he bade me fay :
And fo I do, and with his gifts prefont
Your Lordships, that whenever you have need,
You may be armed and appointed well.
And fo I leave you both, like bloody villains. [Exit,
4 Revenge the Heav'ns-] We should read,
Revenge thee, Heav'ns!
Revenge, ye Heav'ns! Ye was by the tranfcriber taken for y, the.
Dem. What's here, a fcrowl, and written round
Integer vita, fcelerifque purus,
Non eget Mauri jaculis nec arcu.
Chi. O, 'Tis a verfe in Horace, I know it well: I read it in the Grammar long ago.
Aar. Ay, juft;-a verfe in Horace-right, you have it.
Now, what a thing it is to be an Ass?
Here's no fond jeft: th' old man hath found their guilt,
And fends the weapons wrap'd about with lines,
That wound, beyond their feeling, to the [Afide. quick :
But were our witty Empress well a-foot,
She would applaud Andronicus' conceit:
But let her reft in her unreft awhile.
And now, young Lords, was't not a happy ftar
Led us to Rome ftangers, and more than fo,
Captives to be advanced to this height?
It did me good before the Palace-gate
To brave the Tribune in his Brother's hearing.
Dem. But me more good to fee fo great a Lord
Bafely infinuate, and fend us gifts.
Aar. Had he not reafon, Lord Demetrius?
Did you not use his daughter very friendly?
Dem. I would we had a thoufand Roman dames
At fuch a bay, by turn to ferve our lust.
Chi. A charitable wish, and full of love.
Aar. Here lacketh but your mother to fay Amen.
Chi. And that would fhe for twenty thousand more.
Dem. Come, let us go, and pray to all the Gods
For our beloved mother in her pains.
Aar. Pray to the devils; the Geds have given us
[Afide. Flourish.
Dem. Why do the Emp'ror's trumpets flourish thus?
Chi. Belike, for joy the Emp'ror hath a fon.
Dem. Soft, who comes here?
Enter Nurfe, with a Black-a-moor Child.
Nurfe. Good morrow, Lords:
O, tell me, did you fee Aaron the Moor?
Aar. Well. More or lefs, or ne'er a whit at all.
Here Aaron is, and what with Aaron now?
Nur. O gentle Aaron, we are all undone :
Now help, or woe betide thee evermore!
Aar. Why, what a caterwauling doft thou keep?
What doft thou wrap and fumble in thine arms?
Nur. O that which I would hide from heaven's eye,
Our Emprefs' fhame, and ftately Rome's disgrace.
She is deliver'd, Lords, fhe is deliver'd.
Nur. I mean, fhe is brought to bed.
Aar. Well, God give her good rest!
What hath he sent her?
Aar. Why, then she is the Devil's dam; a joyful
iffue.
Nur. A joyless, difmal, black, and forrowful iffue.
Here is the babe, as loathsome as a toad,
Amongst the fairest breeders of our clime.
The Empress sends it thee, thy ftamp, thy feal;
And bids thee chriften it with thy dagger's point.
Aar. Out, out, you whore! is black fo bafe a Hue?
Sweet blowfe, you are a beauteous bloffom, fure.
Dem. Villain, what haft thou done?
Aar. That which thou canst not undo.
Aar. Villain, I've done thy mother.
Dem. And therein, hellifh dog, thou haft undone,
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