Imatges de pàgina
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Thy warlike Hand, thy mangled Daughter here;
Thy other banish'd Son with this dear Sight
Struck pale and blood!efs, and thy Brother I,
Even like a ftony Image, cold and numb.
Ah now no more will controul my Griefs,
Rent off thy Silver Hair, thy other Hand
Gnawing with thy Teeth, and be this difmal fight
The clofing up of our moft wretched Eyes;
Now is a time to ftorm, why art thou ftill?
Tit. Ha, ha, ha.

Mar. Why doft thou laugh? it fits not with this Hour.
Tit. Why I have not another Tear to fhed;
Befides, this Sorrow is an Enemy,

And would ufurp upon my watry Eyes,
And make them blind with tributary Tears,
Then which way fhall I find Revenges Cave?
For these two Heads do feem to speak to me,
And threat me, I fhall never come to Blifs,
Till all thefe Mifchiefs be return'd again,

Even in their Throats that have committed them.
Come let me fee what Task I have to do-
You heavy People circle me about,

That I may turn me to cach one of you,
And fwear unto my Soul to right your Wrongs.
The Vow is made, come Brother take a Head,
And in this Hand the other will I bear,
Lavinia, thou fhalt be employ'd in thefe things;
Bear thou my Hand, fwest Wench, between thy Teeth;
As for thee, Boy, go get thee from my fight,
Thou art an Exile, and thou muft not ftay.
Hie to the Goths, and raife an Army there,
And if you love me, as I think you do,
Let's kifs and part, for we have much to do.

Manet Lucius.

Luc. Farewel Adronicus, my noble Father,
The woful'ft Man that ever liv'd in Rome;
Farewel, proud Rome, till Lucius come again,
He leaves his Pledges dearer than his Life;
Farewel Lavinia, my noble Sifter,

O would thou wert as thou to fore haft been,
But now, nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives

Exeunt.

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But in Oblivion and hateful Griefs;
If Lucius live, he will requite your Wrongs,
And make proud Saturninus and his Emprefs
Beg at the Gates like Tarquin and his Queen,
Now will I to the Goths and raise a Power,
To be reveng'd on Rome and Saturnine.

2041

[Exit Lucius.

A Banquet. Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and the Boy.
Tit. So, fo, now fit, and look you eat no more
Than will preferve juft fo much Strength in us,
As will revenge these bitter Woes of ours,
Marcus, unknit that Sorrow-wreathen knot;
Thy Niece and I, poor Creatures, want our Hands
And cannot paffionate our ten-fold Grief,
With folded Arms. This poor Right-Hand of mine
Is left to Tyrannize upon my Breaft,
And when my Heart, all mad with Mifery,
Beats in this hollow Prifon of my Flesh,

Then thus I thump it down.

Thou Map of Wo, that thus doft talk in Signs,
When thy poor Heart beats with outragious beating,
Thou canst not ftrike it thus to make it ftill;
Wound it with Singing, Girl, kill it with Groans;
Or get fome 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 foaking in,
Drown the lamenting Fool in Sea-falt Tears.
Mar. Fie, Brother, fie, teach her not thus to lay
Such violent Hands upon her tender Life.

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Tit. How now! Has Sorrow made thee doat already?
Why, Marcus, no Man fhould be mad but I ;
What violent Hands can fhe lay on her Life?
Ah, wherefore doft thou urge the name of Hands,
To bid Æneas tell the Tale twice o'er,
How Troy was burnt, and he made miferable?
O handle not the Theam, no talk of Hands,
Left we remember ftill that we have none.
Fie, fie, how Frantickly I fquare my Talk,
As if we should forget we had no Hands,
If Marcus did not name the word of Hands?

Come,

Come, let's fall too, and gentle Girl eat this,
Here is no Drink: Hark, Marcus, what she says,
I can interpret all her martyr'd Signs,

She fays, the drinks no other Drink but Tears,
Brew'd with her Sorrows, mesh'd upon her Cheeks.
Speechless complaint I will learn thy Thought,
OI
In thy dumb Action will I be as perfect

As begging Hermits in their holy Prayers.
Thou shalt not figh, nor hold thy Stumps to Heaven,
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a Sign,
But I, of thefe, will wreft an Alphabet,

And by ftill Practice, learn to know thy Meaning.
Boy. Good Grandfire leave these bitter deep Laments,
Make my Aunt merry, with fome pleafing Tale.
Mar. Alas the tender Boy, in Pallion mov'd,
Doth weep to fee his Grandfire's heaviness.
Tit. Peace tender Sapling, thou are made of Tears,
And Tears will quickly melt thy Life away.

Marcus ftrikes the Difh with a Knife.

What doft thou ftrike at, Marcus, with thy Knife?
Mar. At that that I have kill'd, my Lord, a Fly.
Tit. Out on thee, Murderer; thou kill'ft my Heart,
Mine Eyes are cloy'd with view of Tyranny:
A deed of Death done on the Innocent

Becomes not Titus Brother; get thee gone,

I fee thou art not for my Company.

Mar. Alas, my Lord, I have but kill'da Fly.

Tit. But how if that Ely had a Father and Mother? How would he hang his flender gilded Wings,

And buz lamenting doings in the Air?

Poor harm'efs Fly,

That with his pretty buzzing Melody,

Came here to make us merry,

And thou haft kill'd him.

Mar. Pardon me, Sir,

It was a black ill-favour'd Fly,

Like to the Emprefs, Moor, therefore I kill'd him,

Tit. 0, 0, 0,

Then pardon me for reprehending thee,
For thou haft done a Charitable Deed;
Give me thy Knife, I will infult on him,

Flattering

Flattering my felf, as if it were the Moor,
Come hither purposely to poifon me.

There's for thy felf, and that's for Tamora: Ah Sirra!
Yet I think we are not brought fo low,

But that between us, we can kill a Fly,

That comes in likeness of a Cole-black Moor.
Mar. Alas poor Man, Grief has fo wrought on him,
He takes falfe Shadows for true Substances.

Come, take away; Lavinia, go

with me,

I'll to thy Closet, and go read with thee
Sad Stories, chanced in the times of old.
Come, Boy, and go with me, thy Sight is young,
And thou shalt read, when mine begin to dazle.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV. SCENE I.

Enter young Lucius and Lavinia running after him, and the Boy flies from her, with his Books under his Arm. Enter Titus and Marcus.

Boy. Help, Grand-fire, help, my Aunt Lavinia

Follows me every where, I know not why.
Good Uncle Marcus, fee how fwift fhe comes:
Alas, fweet Aunt, I know not what you mean.
Mar. Stand by me, Lucius, do not fear thy Aunt.
Tit. She loves thee, Boy, too well to do thee harm.
Boy. Ay, when my Father was in Rome fhe did.
Mar. What means my Neece Lavinia by these Signs?
Tit. Fear thou not, Lucius, fomewhat doth the mean:
See Lucius, fee, how much the makes of thee:
Some whither would he have thee go with her.
Ah, Boy, Cornelia never with more care
Read to her Sons, than the hath read to thee,
Sweet Poetry, and Tully's Oratory :

Can't thou not guefs wherefore fhe plies thee thus ?
Boy. My Lord, I know not I, nor can I guess,
Unless fome Fit or Frenzie do poffefs her:
For I have heard my Grand-fire fay full oft,
Extremity of Grief would make Men mad.
And I have read, that Hecuba of Troy

Ran

Ran mad through forrow, that made me to fear;
Although, my Lord, I know my noble Aunt
Loves me as dear as e'er my Mother did,
And would not, but in fury, fright my Youth,
Which made me down to throw my Books, and flie
Caufelets perhaps; but pardon me, sweet Aunt,
And, Madam, if my Uncle Marcus go,

I will moft willingly attend your Ladyship.
Mar Lucius, I will.

Tit. How now, Lavinia? Marcus, what means this?
Some Book there is that the defies to fee,
Which is it, Girl, of th fe? Open them, Boy,
But thou art deeper read, and better skill'd,
Come and make choice of all my Library,
And fo beguile thy Sorrow, 'till the Heavens
Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed:
What Book?

Why lifts the up her Arms in fequence thus ?

Mar, I think he means that there was more than one
Confederate in the Fact. Ay, more there was:
Or else to Heaven fhe heaves them, to revenge.
Tit. Lucius, what Book is that the toffes fo?
Boy. Grand-fire, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphofis,
My Mother gave it me.

Mar. For love of her that's gone,

Perhaps the cull'd it from among the reft.

Tit. Soft! fee how bufily fhe turns the Leaves!

Help her: What would the find? Lavinia, fhall I read?

This is the tragick Tale of Philomel,

And treats of Tereus Treafon and his Rape;

And Rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy.

Mar. See, Brother, fee, note how the quotes the Leaves, Tit. Lavinia, wert thou thus furpriz'd, fweet Girl,

Ravish'd and wrong'd, as Philomela was,

Forc'd in the ruthlefs, vaft, and gloomy Woods?

See, fee; Ay, fuch a Pace there is, where we did hunt,

(O had we never never hunted there)

Pattern'd by that the Poet here describes,

By Nature made for Murders and for Rapes.

Mar. O why should Nature build fo foul a Den, Unless the Gods delight in Tragedies?

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