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For why, my bowels cannot hide her woes,
But like a drunkard must I vomit them;
Then give me leave, for losers will have leave
To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.

Enter a Melenger bringing in two heads and a band.

Mes. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repay'd
For that good hand thou sent'st the Emperor ;
Here are the heads of thy two noble sons,
And here's thy hand in scorn to thee sent back;
Thy grief's their sport, thy resolution mocke:

That woe is me to think upon thy woes,
More than remembrance of my father's death. [Exis.

Mar. Now let hot Ætna cool in Sicily,
And be my heart an ever-burning hell!
These miseries are more than may be born.
To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal,
But forrow flouted at is double death.

Luc. Ah that this fight should make so deep a wound, And yet

detefted life not shrink thereat ; That ever death should let life bear his name, Where life hath no more interest but to breathe!

Mar. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless, As frozen water to a starved snake.

Tit. When will this fearful number have an end?

Mar. Now farewel flattery! die, Andronicus ;
Thou doft not sumber; see thy two sons heads,
Thy warlikę hand, thy mangled daughter here;
Thy other banilh'd son with this $?dire fight
Struck pale and bloodless, and thy brother I,
Even like a stony image, cold and numb.
Ah now no more will I controul 9'thy' griefs,
Rend off thy flver hair, thy other hand
Gnawing with thy teeth, and be this dismal light
The closing up of our most wretched eyes;
Now is a time to storm, why art thou still?
Tit. Ha, ha, ha.

Mar. 8 dear 9 my...old edit. Theob, emend,

Mar. Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this hour.

Tit. Why I have not another tear to shed; Besides, this forrow is an enemy, And would usurp upon my watry eyes, And make them blind with tributary tears ; Then which way shall I find Revenge's cave? For these two heads do seem to speak to me, And threat me, I shall never come to bliss, 'Till all these mischiefs be return'd again, Even in their throats that have committed them. Come let me see what task I have to do You heavy people, circle me about, That I may turn me to each one of you, And swear 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 shalt be employed in these things ; Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth; As for thee, boy, go get thee from my fight, Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay. Hie to the Goths, and raise an army there; And if you love me, as I think you do, Let's kils and part, for we have much to do. . [Exeunt,

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Luc. Farewel, Andronicus, my noble father,
The woful’At 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 fister,
O would thou wert as thou tofore haft been!
But now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives,
But in oblivion and hateful griefs;
If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs,
And make proud Saturninus and his Empress


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. [Exit Lucius.

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An Apartment in Titus's House. A Banquet. Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and the Boy Lucius. Tit.

O, so, now sit, and look you eat no more

Than will preserve just so much strength in us,
As will revenge these bitter woes of ours.
Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot;
Thy niece and ), poor creatures, want our hands,
And cannot pasionate our ten-fold grief
With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine
Is left to tyrannize upon my breast,
And when my heart, all mad with misery,
Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh,
Then thus I thump it down.
Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs,
When thy poor heart beats with outragious 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 link, and soaking in, Drown the lamenting fool in sea-falc tears.

Mar. Fie, brother, fie, teach her not chus to lay
Such violent hands upon her tender life.

Tit. How now! has forrow made thee doat already?
Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I;
What violent hands can she lay on her life?
Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands?
To bid Æneas tell the tale cwice o'er,

How (a) This scene is not in the old edition.


How Troy was burnt, and he made miserable?
O handle not the theme, no talk of hands,
Left we remember still that we have none.
Fie, fie, how francickly I square my talk,
As if we should forget we had no hands,
If Marcus did not name the word of hands ?
Come, let's fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this.
Here is no drink: hark, Marcus, what she says,
I can interpret all her martyr'd signs ;
She says, the drinks no other drink but tears,
Brew'd with her sorrows, mesh'd upon her cheeks.
Speechless complaint - 0 I will learn thy thought.
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect
As begging hermits in their holy prayers,
Thou Thalt not figh, nor hold thy stumps to heav'n,
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign,
But I, of these, will wrest an alphabet,
And by ftill practice learn to know thy meaning.

Boy. Good grandfire, leave these bitter deep laments, Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.

Mar. Alas, the tender boy in passion mov'd, Doth weep to see his grandGire's heaviness.

Tit. Peace, tender lapling; thou art made of tears, And tears will quickly melt thy life away.

[Marcus strikes the dish with a knife. What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?

Mar. At that that I have kill'd, my Lord, a fly.

Tit. Out on thee, murderer; thou kill'st 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 chou are not for my company.

Mar. Alas, my Lord, I have but kill'd a fly.

Tit. But ? how if that fly had a father and mother? How would he hang his Nender gilded wings, And buz ''laments and\ * 'dolings in the air? Poor harmless fly,

That ! lamenting 2 doings . , . old edit. Theob. emend,

That with his pretty buzzing melody,
Came here to make us merry,
And thou hast kill'd him.

Mar. Pardon 'me, it was a black ill-favour'd fly, Like to the Empress' Moor, therefore I kill'd him.

Tit. O, O, O,
Then pardon me for reprehending thee,
For thou hast done a charitable deed;
Give me thy knife, I will insult on him,
Flattering my self, as if it were the Moor
Come hither purposely to poison me.
There's for thy self, and that's for Tamora:
Yet still I think we are not brought fo low,
But that between us we can kill a fly,
That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.

Mar. Alas, poor man, grief has so wrought on him,
He takes false 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 begins to dazzle. [Exeunt.

А ст


Ticus's House. Enter young Lucius and Lavinia running after him, and the

Boy flies from ber, with his books under his arm. Enter
Titus, and Marcus.

ELP, grandfire, help! my aunt Lavinia
Follows me every where, I know not why.

Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes :
Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean.


3 me, Sir, it

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