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Tremble, like aspen leaves, upon a lute,
And make the silken strings delight to kiss them;
He would not then have touch'd them for his life.
Or, had he heard the heavenly harmony,
Which that sweet tongue hath made ;
He would have dropp'd his knife, and fell asleep,
As Cerberus at the Thracian poet's feet.
Come, let us go, and m thy father blind;
For such a sight will blind a father's eye :
One hour's storm 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;
0, could our mourning ease thy misery! [ Exeunt.

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A Street in Rome. Enter the Judges and Senators, with

MARCUS and Quintus bound, passing on the Stage to the Place of Execution, and Titus going before, pleading.

Hear me, grave fathers! noble tribunes, stay!
For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent
In dangerous wars, whilst you securely slept;
For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed;
For all the frosty nights that I have watch'd ;
And for these bitter tears, which you now see
Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks ;


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Lucius C'rolle, Father


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Be pitiful to my condemned sons,
Whose souls are not corrupted, as 'tis thought!
For two and twenty sons I never wept,
Because they died in honour's lofty bed.

[ANDRONICUS lieth down, and the Judges pass by him.
For these, these, tribunes, in the dust I write
My heart's deep languor, and my soul's sad tears.
Let my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite;
My sons' sweet blood will make it shame and blush.
O earth! I will befriend thee more with rain,

That shall distil from these two ancient urns,
Than youthful April shall with all his showers :
In summer's drought, I'll drop upon thee still;
In winter, with warm tears I'll melt the snow,
And keep eternal spring-time on thy face,
So thou refuse to drink my dear sons' blood.

Enter LUCIUS, with his Sword drawn.
O, reverend tribunes! gentle aged men!
Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death;
And let me say, that never wept before,
My tears are now prevailing orators.

Luc. O, noble father, you lament in vain;
The tribunes hear you not, no man is by,
And you recount your sorrows to a stone.

Tit. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead:Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you. 31

Luc. My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak. Tit. Why, 'tis no matter, man: if they did hear, E


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They would not mark me; or, if they did mark,
All bootless unto them, they would not pity me.
Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones ;
Who, though they cannot answer my distress,
Yet in some sort they're better than the tribunes,
For that they will not intercept my tale :
When I do weep, they humbly at my feet, 40
Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me;
And, were they but attired in grave weeds,
Rome could afford no tribune like to these.
A stone is soft as wax, tribunes more hard than stones :
A stone is silent, and offendeth not ;
And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death,
But wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawn?

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, dost thou not perceive,
That Rome is but a wilderness of tygers ;
Tygers must 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?


Mar. Titus, prepare thy noble eyes to weep;
Or, if not so, thy noble heart to break;
I bring consuming sorrow to thine age.
Tit. Will it consume me; let me see it then.



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