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Tit. How now! has sorrow made thee doat al,
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 twice o'er,
How Troy was burnt, and he made miserable ?
O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands;
Lest we remember still, that we have none.--
Fye, fye, how frantickly 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, she drinks no other drink but tears,
Brew'd with her sorrows, mesh'd upon her cheeks:
Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought; 340
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect,
As begging hermits in their holy prayers :
Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven,
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign,
But I, of these, will wrest an alphabet,
And, by still practice, learn to know the meaning.
Boy. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep la-
Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.
Mar. Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov’d,
Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness. 350
Tit. Peace, tender sapling; 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 see, thou art not for my company.
Mar. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly. 360
Tit. But how, if that fly had a father and mother?
How would he hang his slender gilded wings,
And buz lamenting doings in the air ?
Poor harmless fly!
That with his pretty buzzing melody,
Came here to make us merry; and thou hast kill'd
Mar. Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favour'd
Like to the emperess' 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 myself, as if it were the Moor,
Come hither purposely to poison me.-
There's for thyself, and that's for Tamora.
Ah, sirrah !-yet I think we are not brought so low,
But that, between us, we can kill a fly,
That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.
Mar. Alas, poor man! grief bas so wrought on
He takes false shadows for true substances. 38
Tit. 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.
Titus's House. Enter young LUCIUS, and LAVINIA
running after him; and the Boy flies from her, with his Books under his Arm. Enter Titus and MARCUS.
Help, grandsire, 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.
Mar. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine
Tit. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee
Boy. Ah, when my father was in Rome, she did.
Mar. What means my niece Lavinia by these signs ?
Tit. Fear her not, Lucius :-Somewhat doth she
See, Lucius, see, how much she makes of thee:
Somewhither would she have thee go with her.
Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care
Read to her sons, than she hath read to thee,
Sweet poetry, and Tully's oratory.
Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus ?
Boy. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,
Unless some fit of phrenzy do possess her :
For I have heard my grandsire say full oft,
Extremity of griefs would make men mad;
And I have read, that Hecuba of Troy
Ran mad through sorrow; 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 fly;
Causeless, perhaps : But pardon, me sweet aunt:
And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,
I will most willingly attend your ladyship.
Mar. Lucius, I will.
Tit. How now, Lavinia ?-Marcus, what means
Some book there is that she desires to see :-
Which is it, girl, of these ? Open them, boy.-
But thou art deeper read, and better skill'd;
Come, and take choice of all my library,
And so beguile thy sorrow, 'till the heavens
Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed.
Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus ?
Mar. I think, she means, that there was more than
Confederate in the fact ;-Ay, more there was:-
Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge.
Tit. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so?
Boy. Grandsire, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphosis; My mother gave it me.
Mar. For love of her that's gone, Perhaps she cull'd it from among the rest.
Tit. Soft! soft, how busily she turns the leaves ! Help her: What would she find ? Lavinia, shall I
read? This is the tragic tale of Philomel, And treats of Tereus' treason, and his rape; And rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy. 50 Mar. See, brother see ; note, how she quotes the
leaves. Tit. Lavinia, were't thou thus surpriz'd sweet girl, Ravish'd, and wrong'd, as Philomela was, Forc'd in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods ? See, see!Ay, such a place there is, where we did hunt, (0, had we never, never, hunted there !) Pattern’d by that the poet here describes, By nature made for murders, and for rapes.
Mar. 0, why should nature build so foul a den, 60 Unless the gods delight in tragedies ! Tit. Give signs, sweet girl,-for here are none but friends, Fiij