Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments, (14)
Whofe circling fhadows Kings have fought to fleep in?
And might not gain fo great a happiness,

As have thy love! why doft not speak to me?
Alas, a crimson river of warm blood,

Like to a bubbling fountain ftirr'd with wind,
Doth rife and fall between thy rofy lips,
Coming and going with thy honey breath.
But, fure, fome Tereus hath defloured thee;
And left thou shou'dft detect him, cut thy tongue.
Ah, now thou turn'ft away thy face for fame!
And, notwithstanding all this lofs of blood,
(As from a conduit with their iffuing spouts,)
Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face,
Blushing to be encountred with a cloud.
Shall I speak for thee? fhall I fay, 'tis fo?
O, that I knew thy heart, and knew the beaft,
That I might rail at him to ease my mind!
Sorrow concealed, like an oven flopt,
Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.
Fair Philomela, fhe but loft her tongue,
And in a tedious fampler few'd her mind!
But lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee
A craftier Tereus haft thou met withal,
And he hath cut thofe pretty fingers off,
That could have better few'd than Philomel.
Oh, had the monster feen those lilly hands
Tremble, like afpen leaves, upon a lute,
And make the filken ftrings delight to kiss them;

(14)

-thofe feet ornaments, Whofe circling fhadows Kings have fought to fleep in, And might not gain fo great an bappiness,

As half thy love! As balf her love? But might they gain any part of her love? or would the not confent to embrace 'em fo much as with one arm? the poet had no fuch stuff in his thoughts. My correction reftores the true meaning; that tho' Princes languifh'd to fleep in her arms, they could not obtain their fuit, or bave her love. The very fame corruption has obtain'd in our author's tale of Cephalus and

Procris:

And looks, as do the trees by winter nipt,

Whom frost and cold of fruit and leaves balf ftript.

For grammar fhews, that we muft likewife read here-have fript.

He

He would not then have touch'd them for his life.
Or had he heard the heav'nly harmony,
Which that fweet tongue hath made;

He would have dropt his knife, and fell asleep,
As Cerberus at the Thracian poet's feet.
Come, let us go, and make thy father blind;
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 misery!

[Exeunt.

***

ACT III.

SCENE, a Street in Rome.

Enter the Judges and Senators, with Marcus and Quintus bound, paffing on the ftage to the place of execution, and Titus going before, pleading.

H

TITUS.

Ear me, grave fathers; noble tribunes, ftay,
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 shed,
For all the frofty 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 lieth dorn, and the Judges pafs 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 ftanch the earth's dry appetite,

My fons fweet blood will make it fhame and blush:
O earth! I will befriend thee more with rain,

[Exe.

That

That shall distil from these two ancient ruins,
Than youthful April fhall with all his fhowers; (15)
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 fons blood.

Enter Lucius with his fword drawn.

Oh, 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 ;
The tribunes hear you not, no man is by;
And you recount your forrows to a flone.

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,
Thou 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 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 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?

(15) Than youthful April fhall with all her fhow'rs;] This is the reading of our poetical editors only; the older copies have it rightly -with all his fhow'rs. If they had not remember'd Ovid in his Fasti, lib. IV. ver. 89.

(Aprilem memorant ab aperto tempore dictum :

Quem Venus injecta vindicat alma manu.)

They might, at leaft, have remembred the first rule in their Propria quæ maribus, that all months and winds are mafculineș.

Luc.

Luc. To rescue 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 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?
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, so she 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? (16)
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 effectlefs ufe.
Now all the fervice I require of them,

(16)

what accurfed band

Hath made thee handlefs in thy father's fight?] But tho' Lavinia appeared handlefs in her father's prefence, he was not made fo in his fight. And if that be the true reading, it can at best bear but this poor meaning, what curs'd hand hath robb'd thee of thy hands, for thy father to see thee in that condition? The flight alteration I have given, adds a much more reasonable complaint, and aggravates the fentiment. What curfed hand hath robb'd thee of thy hands, only in despight to thy father, only to encrease his torments?

Is

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 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 herfelf; 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 brinith 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 martyr'd thee;
Thy husband he is dead; and for his death
Thy brothers are comdemn'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 almoft wither'd.

Mar. Perchance, fhe weeps because they kill'd her hufband.

Perchance, because fhe knows them innocent.

Tit. If they did kill thy hufband, then be joyful,

Becaufe