Shall not be sent: my hand will serve the turn: And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-axe, Writing destruction on the enemy's castle? Aar. Nay, come agree, whose hand shall go along, For fear they die before their pardon come. Mar. My hand shall go. Luc. By heaven, it shall not go. Tit. Sirs, strive no more; such wither'd herbs as these Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine. Mar. And, for our father's sake, and mother's care, Now let me show a brother's love to thee. Tit. Agree between you; I will spare my hand. Luc. Then I'll go fetch an axe. Mar. But I will use the axe. [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 never, whilst I live, deceive men so:But I'll deceive you in another sort, And that you'll say, ere half an hour can pass. [Aside. [He cuts off Titus's hand. Enter Lucius and Marcus. Tit. Now, stay your strife; what shall be, is de spatch'd. Good Aaron, give his majesty my hand: To that I call;-What, wilt thou kneel with me? [To Lavinia. Do thea, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our prayers; Or with our sighs we'll breathe the welkin dim, Mar. O brother, speak with possibilities, Tit. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom? Then be my passions 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 heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow? Sufferings. + The sky. Stir, bustle. Then must my earth with her continual tears Enter a Messenger, with two heads and a hand. Mess. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid For that good hand thou sent'st the emperor. Here are the heads of thy two noble sous; And here's thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back; Thy griefs their sports, thy resolution mock'd: That woe is me to think upon thy woes, More than remembrance of my father's death. [Exit. Mar. Now let hot Etna 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 ease some deal, But sorrow flouted at is double death. Luc. Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound, And yet detested life not shrink thereat! That ever death should let life bear his name, [Lavinia kisses him. Mar. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless, As frozen water to a starved snake. Tit. When will this fearful slumber have an end? Mar. Now, farewell flattery: Die, Andronicus; Thou dost not slumber: see, thy two sons' heads; Thy warlike hand; thy mangled daughter here; Thy other banish'd son, with this dear sight Struck pale and bloodicss; and thy brother, I, Even like a stony image, cold and numb. Ah! now no more will I control thy griefs: Rent off thy silver hair, thy other hand Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight Now is a time to storm; why art thou still? Tit. Ha, ha, ha! Mar. Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this hour. Tit. Why, I have not another tear to shed: And would usurp upon my watry eyes, Even in their throats that have committed them. You heavy people, circle me about; That I may turn me to each one of you, Lavinia, thou shalt be employed in these things; Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth. As for thee, boy, go get thee from my sight; [Exeunt Titus, Marcus, and Lavinia. O, 'would thou wert as thou 'tofore hast been! If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs; Beg at the gates, like Tarquin and his queen. [Exit. SCENE II. A room in Titus's house. A banquet set out. Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and Young Lucius, a boy. Tit. So, so; now sit: and look, you eat no more Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot; With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine And when my heart, all mad with misery, Then thus I thump it down. Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs! [To Lavinia. When thy poor heart beats with outrageous 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, May run into that sink, and soaking in, Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears. Mar. Fye, brother, fye! teach her not thus to lay Such violent hands upon her tender life. Tit. How now! has sorrow made thee dote al ready? Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I. What violent hands can she lay on her life? |