For fuch a fight will blind a father's eye.
One hour's ftorm will drown the fragrant meads,
What will whole months of tears thy father's eyes?
Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee:
Oh could our mourning ease thy mifery!
ACT. III. SCENE I.
A Street in Rome.
Enter the Judges and Senators, with Marcus and Quintus bound, paffing on the Stage to the place of Execution, and Titus going before, pleading.
Tit. EAR me, grave fathers, noble Tribunes, stay,
For pity of mine age, whofe youth was spent
In dangerous wars, whilft you fecurely flept:
For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel fhed,
For all the frosty nights that I have watcht,
And for thefe bitter tears, which you now fee
Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks,
Be pitiful to my condemned fons,
Whofe fouls are not corrupted, as 'tis thought.
For two and twenty fons I never wept,
Because they died in honour's lofty bed.
[Andronicus lyeth down, and the judges pafs by bim.
For thefe, thefe, Tribunes, in the duft I write
My heart's deep languor, and my foul's fad tears:
Let my tears ftanch the earth's dry appetite,
My fon's fweet blood will make it fhame and blufh:
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 fhowers;
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 refufe to drink my dear fon's blood.
Enter Lucius with his fword drazun.
O reverend Tribunes! gentle aged men!
Unbind my fons, reverfe 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,
VOL. VIII.
The Tribunes hear you not, no man is by,
And you recount your forrows to a ftone.
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 speak. 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,
Yet in fome fort are 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 these.
A ftone is as foft wax, Tribunes more hard than ftones:
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 everlafting 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 tigers?
Tigers muft prey, and Rome affords no prey
But me and mine; how happy art thou then,
From these 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
Hath made thee handlefs, in thy father's fpight:
What fool hath added water to the fea?
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 effectless use.
Now all the service I require of them,
Is that the one will help to cut the other:
'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou haft no hands,
For hands to do Rome fervice are but vain.
Luc. Speak, gentle fifter, who hath martyr'd thee?
Mar. O 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 sweet melodious bird it fung
Sweet various notes, inchanting every ear.
Luc. Oh fay thou for her, who hath done this deed! Mar. Oh 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 wilderness of sea,
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 greateft fpurn,
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my foul-
Had I but feen thy picture in this plight,
It would have madded me. What fhall I do,
Now I behold thy lively body fo?
Thou haft no hands to wipe away thy tears,
Nor tongue to tell me who hath marty'rd 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 lilly almost wither'd.
Mar. Perchance the weeps because they kill'd her hufPerchance becaufe fhe 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 fo foul a deed,
Witnefs 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 fhews
Pafs the remainder of our hateful days?
What fhall we do? let us that have our tongues
Plot fome device of further mifery,
To make us wondred at in time to come.
Luc. Sweet father, ceafe your tears, for at your grief See how my wretched fifter fobs and weeps.
Mar. Patience, dear neice; 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 figns;
Had fhe a tongue to fpeak, now would the fay
That to her brother which I faid to thee,
His napkin with his true tears all bewet,
Can do no fervice on her forrowful cheeks.
Oh what a fympathy of woe is this!
As far from help as limbo is from blifs!
SCENE III, Enter Aaron.
Aar. Titus Andronicus, my Lord the Emperor
Sends thee this word, that if thou love thy fons,
Let Marcus, Lucius, or thy felf, old Titus,
Or any one of you chop off your hand,
And send it to the King; he for the fame
Will fend thee hither both thy fons alive,
And that fhall be the ranfom for their fault.
Tit. Oh gracious Emperor! oh gentle Aaron!
Did ever raven fing fo like a lark,
That gives fweet tidings of the fun's uprife?
With all my heart, I'll fend the Emperor
My hand; good Aaron, wilt thou chop it off?
Luc. Stay, father, for that noble hand of thine,
That hath thrown down fo many enemies,
Shall not be fent; my hand will serve 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,
Writing deftruction on the enemies cafk?
Oh none of both but are of high defert:
My hand hath been but idle, let it ferve
To ranfom my two nephews from their death,
Then have I kept it to a worthy end.
Aar. Nay, come, agree whofe hand shall go along,
For fear they die before their pardon come.
Mar. My hand fhall go.
Luc. By heav'n, it fhall not go.
Tit. Sirs, ftrive no more, fuch wither'd herbs as these
Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.
Luc. Sweet father, if I fhall be thought thy fon,
Let me redeem my brothers both from death.
Mar. And for our father's fake, and mother's care,
Now let me fhew a brother's love to thee.
Tit. Agree between you, I will fpare my hand.
Luc. Then I'll go fetch an ax,
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