{"collection":"sks","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/browse/sks/ff/ta.htm","path":"sks/ff/ta.htm","source_url":"https://sacred-texts.com/sks/ff/ta.htm","text":"Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.\nFlourish. Enter the Tribunes and Senators aloft And then enter\nSaturninus\nand his Followers at one doore, and Bassianus and his Followers at\nthe\nother, with Drum & Colours.\nSaturninus. Noble Patricians, Patrons of my right,\nDefend the iustice of my Cause with Armes.\nAnd Countrey-men, my louing Followers,\nPleade my Successiue Title with your Swords.\nI was the first borne Sonne, that was the last\nThat wore the Imperiall Diadem of Rome:\nThen let my Fathers Honours liue in me,\nNor wrong mine Age with this indignitie\nBassianus. Romaines, Friends, Followers,\nFauourers of my Right:\nIf euer Bassianus, C\u00e6sars Sonne,\nWere gracious in the eyes of Royall Rome,\nKeepe then this passage to the Capitoll:\nAnd suffer not Dishonour to approach\nTh' Imperiall Seate to Vertue: consecrate\nTo Iustice, Continence, and Nobility:\nBut let Desert in pure Election shine;\nAnd Romanes, fight for Freedome in your Choice.\nEnter Marcus Andronicus aloft with the Crowne.\nPrinces, that striue by Factions, and by Friends,\nAmbitiously for Rule and Empery:\nKnow, that the people of Rome for whom we stand\nA speciall Party, haue by Common voyce\nIn Election for the Romane Emperie,\nChosen Andronicus, Sur-named Pious,\nFor many good and great deserts to Rome.\nA Nobler man, a brauer Warriour,\nLiues not this day within the City Walles.\nHe by the Senate is accited home\nFrom weary Warres against the barbarous Gothes,\nThat with his Sonnes (a terror to our Foes)\nHath yoak'd a Nation strong, train'd vp in Armes.\nTen yeares are spent, since first he vndertooke\nThis Cause of Rome, and chasticed with Armes\nOur Enemies pride. Fiue times he hath return'd\nBleeding to Rome, bearing his Valiant Sonnes\nIn Coffins from the Field.\nAnd now at last, laden with Honours Spoyles,\nReturnes the good Andronicus to Rome,\nRenowned Titus, flourishing in Armes.\nLet vs intreat, by Honour of his Name,\nWhom (worthily) you would haue now succeede,\nAnd in the Capitoll and Senates right,\nWhom you pretend to Honour and Adore,\nThat you withdraw you, and abate your Strength,\nDismisse your Followers, and as Suters should,\nPleade your Deserts in Peace and Humblenesse\nSaturnine. How fayre the Tribune speakes,\nTo calme my thoughts\nBassia. Marcus Andronicus, so I do affie\nIn thy vprightnesse and Integrity:\nAnd so I Loue and Honor thee, and thine,\nThy Noble Brother Titus, and his Sonnes,\nAnd Her (to whom my thoughts are humbled all)\nGracious Lauinia, Romes rich Ornament,\nThat I will heere dismisse my louing Friends:\nAnd to my Fortunes, and the Peoples Fauour,\nCommit my Cause in ballance to be weigh'd.\nExit Souldiours.\nSaturnine. Friends, that haue beene\nThus forward in my Right,\nI thanke you all, and heere Dismisse you all,\nAnd to the Loue and Fauour of my Countrey,\nCommit my Selfe, my Person, and the Cause:\nRome, be as iust and gracious vnto me,\nAs I am confident and kinde to thee.\nOpen the Gates, and let me in\nBassia. Tribunes, and me, a poore Competitor.\nFlourish. They go vp into the Senat house.\nEnter a Captaine.\nCap. Romanes make way: the good Andronicus,\nPatron of Vertue, Romes best Champion,\nSuccessefull in the Battailes that he fights,\nWith Honour and with Fortune is return'd,\nFrom whence he circumscribed with his Sword,\nAnd brought to yoke the Enemies of Rome.\nSound Drummes and Trumpets. And then enter two of Titus\nSonnes; After\nthem, two men bearing a Coffin couered with blacke, then two\nother Sonnes.\nAfter them, Titus Andronicus, and then Tamora the Queene of\nGothes, & her\ntwo Sonnes Chiron and Demetrius, with Aaron the Moore, and\nothers, as many\nas can bee: They set downe the Coffin, and Titus speakes.\nAndronicus. Haile Rome:\nVictorious in thy Mourning Weedes:\nLoe as the Barke that hath discharg'd his fraught,\nReturnes with precious lading to the Bay,\nFrom whence at first she weigh'd her Anchorage:\nCommeth Andronicus bound with Lawrell bowes,\nTo resalute his Country with his teares,\nTeares of true ioy for his returne to Rome,\nThou great defender of this Capitoll,\nStand gracious to the Rites that we intend.\nRomaines, of fiue and twenty Valiant Sonnes,\nHalfe of the number that King Priam had,\nBehold the poore remaines aliue and dead!\nThese that Suruiue, let Rome reward with Loue:\nThese that I bring vnto their latest home,\nWith buriall amongst their Auncestors.\nHeere Gothes haue giuen me leaue to sheath my Sword:\nTitus vnkinde, and carelesse of thine owne,\nWhy suffer'st thou thy Sonnes vnburied yet,\nTo houer on the dreadfull shore of Stix?\nMake way to lay them by their Bretheren.\nThey open the Tombe.\nThere greete in silence as the dead are wont,\nAnd sleepe in peace, slaine in your Countries warres:\nO sacred receptacle of my ioyes,\nSweet Cell of vertue and Nobilitie,\nHow many Sonnes of mine hast thou in store,\nThat thou wilt neuer render to me more?\nLuc. Giue vs the proudest prisoner of the Gothes,\nThat we may hew his limbes, and on a pile\nAd manus fratrum, sacrifice his flesh:\nBefore this earthly prison of their bones,\nThat so the shadowes be not vnappeas'd,\nNor we disturb'd with prodigies on earth\nTit. I giue him you, the Noblest that Suruiues,\nThe eldest Son of this distressed Queene\nTam. Stay Romaine Bretheren, gracious Conqueror,\nVictorious Titus, rue the teares I shed,\nA Mothers teares in passion for her sonne:\nAnd if thy Sonnes were euer deere to thee,\nOh thinke my sonnes to be as deere to mee.\nSufficeth not, that we are brought to Rome\nTo beautifie thy Triumphs, and returne\nCaptiue to thee, and to thy Romaine yoake,\nBut must my Sonnes be slaughtred in the streetes,\nFor Valiant doings in their Countries cause?\nO! If to fight for King and Common-weale,\nWere piety in thine, it is in these:\nAndronicus, staine not thy Tombe with blood.\nWilt thou draw neere the nature of the Gods?\nDraw neere them then in being mercifull.\nSweet mercy is Nobilities true badge,\nThrice Noble Titus, spare my first borne sonne\nTit. Patient your selfe Madam, and pardon me.\nThese are the Brethren, whom you Gothes beheld\nAliue and dead, and for their Bretheren slaine,\nReligiously they aske a sacrifice:\nTo this your sonne is markt, and die he must,\nT' appease their groaning shadowes that are gone\nLuc. Away with him, and make a fire straight,\nAnd with our Swords vpon a pile of wood,\nLet's hew his limbes till they be cleane consum'd.\nExit Sonnes with Alarbus.\nTamo. O cruell irreligious piety\nChi. Was euer Scythia halfe so barbarous?\nDem. Oppose me Scythia to ambitious Rome,\nAlarbus goes to rest, and we suruiue,\nTo tremble vnder Titus threatning lookes.\nThen Madam stand resolu'd, but hope withall,\nThe selfe same Gods that arm'd the Queene of Troy\nWith opportunitie of sharpe reuenge\nVpon the Thracian Tyrant in his Tent,\nMay fauour Tamora the Queene of Gothes,\n(When Gothes were Gothes, and Tamora was Queene)\nTo quit the bloody wrongs vpon her foes.\nEnter the Sonnes of Andronicus againe.\nLuci. See Lord and Father, how we haue perform'd\nOur Romaine rightes, Alarbus limbs are lopt,\nAnd intrals feede the sacrifising fire,\nWhole smoke like incense doth perfume the skie.\nRemaineth nought but to interre our Brethren,\nAnd with low'd Larums welcome them to Rome\nTit. Let it be so, and let Andronicus\nMake this his latest farewell to their Soules.\nFlourish.\nThen Sound Trumpets, and lay the Coffins in the Tombe.\nIn peace and Honour rest you heere my Sonnes,\nRomes readiest Champions, repose you heere in rest,\nSecure from worldly chaunces and mishaps:\nHeere lurks no Treason, heere no enuie swels,\nHeere grow no damned grudges, heere are no stormes,\nNo noyse, but silence and Eternall sleepe,\nIn peace and Honour rest you heere my Sonnes.\nEnter Lauinia.\nLaui. In peace and Honour, liue Lord Titus long,\nMy Noble Lord and Father, liue in Fame:\nLoe at this Tombe my tributarie teares,\nI render for my Bretherens Obsequies:\nAnd at thy feete I kneele, with teares of ioy\nShed on the earth for thy returne to Rome.\nO blesse me heere with thy victorious hand,\nWhose Fortune Romes best Citizens applau'd\nTi. Kind Rome,\nThat hast thus louingly reseru'd\nThe Cordiall of mine age to glad my hart,\nLauinia liue, out-liue thy Fathers dayes:\nAnd Fames eternall date for vertues praise\nMarc. Long liue Lord Titus, my beloued brother,\nGracious Triumpher in the eyes of Rome\nTit. Thankes Gentle Tribune,\nNoble brother Marcus\nMar. And welcome Nephews from succesfull wars,\nYou that suruiue and you that sleepe in Fame:\nFaire Lords your Fortunes are all alike in all,\nThat in your Countries seruice drew your Swords.\nBut safer Triumph is this Funerall Pompe,\nThat hath aspir'd to Solons Happines,\nAnd Triumphs ouer chaunce in honours bed.\nTitus Andronicus, the people of Rome,\nWhose friend in iustice thou hast euer bene,\nSend thee by me their Tribune and their trust,\nThis Palliament of white and spotlesse Hue,\nAnd name thee in Election for the Empire,\nWith these our late deceased Emperours Sonnes:\nBe Candidatus then, and put it on,\nAnd helpe to set a head on headlesse Rome\nTit. A better head her Glorious body fits,\nThen his that shakes for age and feeblenesse:\nWhat should I don this Robe and trouble you,\nBe chosen with proclamations to day,\nTo morrow yeeld vp rule, resigne my life,\nAnd set abroad new businesse for you all.\nRome I haue bene thy Souldier forty yeares,\nAnd led my Countries strength successefully,\nAnd buried one and twenty Valiant Sonnes,\nKnighted in Field, slaine manfully in Armes,\nIn right and Seruice of their Noble Countrie:\nGiue me a staffe of Honour for mine age,\nBut not a Scepter to controule the world,\nVpright he held it Lords, that held it last\nMar. Titus, thou shalt obtaine and aske the Emperie\nSat. Proud and ambitious Tribune can'st thou tell?\nTitus. Patience Prince Saturninus\nSat. Romaines do me right.\nPatricians draw your Swords, and sheath them not\nTill Saturninus be Romes Emperour:\nAndronicus would thou wert shipt to hell,\nRather then rob me of the peoples harts\nLuc. Proud Saturnine, interrupter of the good\nThat Noble minded Titus meanes to thee\nTit. Content thee Prince, I will restore to thee\nThe peoples harts, and weane them from themselues\nBass. Andronicus, I do not flatter thee\nBut Honour thee, and will doe till I die:\nMy Faction if thou strengthen with thy Friend?\nI will most thankefull be, and thankes to men\nOf Noble mindes, is Honourable Meede\nTit. People of Rome, and Noble Tribunes heere,\nI aske your voyces and your Suffrages,\nWill you bestow them friendly on Andronicus?\nTribunes. To gratifie the good Andronicus,\nAnd Gratulate his safe returne to Rome,\nThe people will accept whom he admits\nTit. Tribunes I thanke you, and this sure I make,\nThat you Create your Emperours eldest sonne,\nLord Saturnine, whose Vertues will I hope,\nReflect on Rome as Tytans Rayes on earth,\nAnd ripen Iustice in this Common-weale:\nThen if you will elect by my aduise,\nCrowne him, and say: Long liue our Emperour\nMar. An. With Voyces and applause of euery sort,\nPatricians and Plebeans we Create\nLord Saturninus Romes Great Emperour.\nAnd say, Long liue our Emperour Saturnine.\nA long Flourish till they come downe.\nSatu. Titus Andronicus, for thy Fauours done,\nTo vs in our Election this day,\nI giue thee thankes in part of thy Deserts,\nAnd will with Deeds requite thy gentlenesse:\nAnd for an Onset Titus to aduance\nThy Name, and Honorable Familie,\nLauinia will I make my Empresse,\nRomes Royall Mistris, Mistris of my hart\nAnd in the Sacred Pathan her espouse:\nTell me Andronicus doth this motion please thee?\nTit. It doth my worthy Lord, and in this match,\nI hold me Highly Honoured of your Grace,\nAnd heere in sight of Rome, to Saturnine,\nKing and Commander of our Common-weale,\nThe Wide-worlds Emperour, do I Consecrate,\nMy Sword, my Chariot, and my Prisoners,\nPresents well Worthy Romes Imperiall Lord:\nReceiue them then, the Tribute that I owe,\nMine Honours Ensignes humbled at my feete\nSatu. Thankes Noble Titus, Father of my life,\nHow proud I am of thee, and of thy gifts\nRome shall record, and when I do forget\nThe least of these vnspeakable Deserts,\nRomans forget your Fealtie to me\nTit. Now Madam are you prisoner to an Emperour,\nTo him that for your Honour and your State,\nWill vse you Nobly and your followers\nSatu. A goodly Lady, trust me of the Hue\nThat I would choose, were I to choose a new:\nCleere vp Faire Queene that cloudy countenance,\nThough chance of warre\nHath wrought this change of cheere,\nThou com'st not to be made a scorne in Rome:\nPrincely shall be thy vsage euery way.\nRest on my word, and let not discontent\nDaunt all your hopes: Madam he comforts you,\nCan make you Greater then the Queene of Gothes?\nLauinia you are not displeas'd with this?\nLau. Not I my Lord, sith true Nobilitie,\nWarrants these words in Princely curtesie\nSat. Thankes sweete Lauinia, Romans let vs goe:\nRansomlesse heere we set our Prisoners free,\nProclaime our Honors Lords with Trumpe and Drum\nBass. Lord Titus by your leaue, this Maid is mine\nTit. How sir? Are you in earnest then my Lord?\nBass. I Noble Titus, and resolu'd withall,\nTo doe my selfe this reason, and this right\nMarc. Suum cuiquam, is our Romane Iustice,\nThis Prince in Iustice ceazeth but his owne\nLuc. And that he will and shall, if Lucius liue\nTit. Traytors auant, where is the Emperours Guarde?\nTreason my Lord, Lauinia is surpris'd\nSat. Surpris'd, by whom?\nBass. By him that iustly may\nBeare his Betroth'd, from all the world away\nMuti. Brothers helpe to conuey her hence away,\nAnd with my Sword Ile keepe this doore safe\nTit. Follow my Lord, and Ile soone bring her backe\nMut. My Lord you passe not heere\nTit. What villaine Boy, bar'st me my way in Rome?\nMut. Helpe Lucius helpe. He kils him\nLuc. My Lord you are vniust, and more then so,\nIn wrongfull quarrell, you haue slaine your son\nTit. Nor thou, nor he are any sonnes of mine,\nMy sonnes would neuer so dishonour me.\nTraytor restore Lauinia to the Emperour\nLuc. Dead if you will, but not to be his wife,\nThat is anothers lawfull promist Loue.\nEnter aloft the Emperour with Tamora and her two sonnes, and\nAaron the\nMoore.\nEmpe. No Titus, no, the Emperour needs her not,\nNor her, nor thee, nor any of thy stocke:\nIle trust by Leisure him that mocks me once.\nThee neuer: nor thy Trayterous haughty sonnes,\nConfederates all, thus to dishonour me.\nWas none in Rome to make a stale\nBut Saturnine? Full well Andronicus\nAgree these Deeds, with that proud bragge of thine,\nThat said'st, I beg'd the Empire at thy hands\nTit. O monstrous, what reproachfull words are these?\nSat. But goe thy wayes, goe giue that changing peece,\nTo him that flourisht for her with his Sword:\nA Valliant sonne in-law thou shalt enioy:\nOne, fit to bandy with thy lawlesse Sonnes,\nTo ruffle in the Common-wealth of Rome\nTit. These words are Razors to my wounded hart\nSat. And therefore louely Tamora Queene of Gothes,\nThat like the stately Thebe mong'st her Nimphs\nDost ouer-shine the Gallant'st Dames of Rome,\nIf thou be pleas'd with this my sodaine choyse,\nBehold I choose thee Tamora for my Bride,\nAnd will Create thee Empresse of Rome.\nSpeake Queene of Goths dost thou applau'd my choyse?\nAnd heere I sweare by all the Romaine Gods,\nSith Priest and Holy-water are so neere,\nAnd Tapers burne so bright, and euery thing\nIn readines for Hymeneus stand,\nI will not resalute the streets of Rome,\nOr clime my Pallace, till from forth this place,\nI leade espous'd my Bride along with me\nTamo. And heere in sight of heauen to Rome I sweare,\nIf Saturnine aduance the Queen of Gothes,\nShee will a Hand-maid be to his desires,\nA louing Nurse, a Mother to his youth\nSatur. Ascend Faire Queene,\nPanthean Lords, accompany\nYour Noble Emperour and his louely Bride,\nSent by the heauens for Prince Saturnine,\nWhose wisedome hath her Fortune Conquered,\nThere shall we Consummate our Spousall rites.\nExeunt. omnes.\nTit. I am not bid to waite vpon this Bride:\nTitus when wer't thou wont to walke alone,\nDishonoured thus and Challenged of wrongs?\nEnter Marcus and Titus Sonnes.\nMar. O Titus see! O see what thou hast done!\nIn a bad quarrell, slaine a Vertuous sonne\nTit. No foolish Tribune, no: No sonne of mine,\nNor thou, nor these Confedrates in the deed,\nThat hath dishonoured all our Family,\nVnworthy brother, and vnworthy Sonnes\nLuci. But let vs giue him buriall as becomes:\nGiue Mutius buriall with our Bretheren\nTit. Traytors away, he rest's not in this Tombe:\nThis Monument fiue hundreth yeares hath stood,\nWhich I haue Sumptuously re-edified.\nHeere none but Souldiers, and Romes Seruitors,\nRepose in Fame: None basely slaine in braules,\nBury him where you can, he comes not heere\nMar. My Lord this is impiety in you,\nMy Nephew Mutius deeds do plead for him,\nHe must be buried with his bretheren\nTitus two Sonnes speakes. And shall, or him we will accompany\nTi. And shall! What villaine was it spake that word?\nTitus sonne speakes. He that would vouch'd it in any place but\nheere\nTit. What would you bury him in my despight?\nMar. No Noble Titus, but intreat of thee,\nTo pardon Mutius, and to bury him\nTit. Marcus, Euen thou hast stroke vpon my Crest,\nAnd with these Boyes mine Honour thou hast wounded,\nMy foes I doe repute you euery one.\nSo trouble me no more, but get you gone\n1.Sonne. He is not himselfe, let vs withdraw\n2.Sonne. Not I tell Mutius bones be buried.\nThe Brother and the sonnes kneele.\nMar. Brother, for in that name doth nature plea'd\n2.Sonne. Father, and in that name doth nature speake\nTit. Speake thou no more if all the rest will speede\nMar. Renowned Titus more then halfe my soule\nLuc. Deare Father, soule and substance of vs all\nMar. Suffer thy brother Marcus to interre\nHis Noble Nephew heere in vertues nest,\nThat died in Honour and Lauinia's cause.\nThou art a Romaine, be not barbarous:\nThe Greekes vpon aduise did bury Aiax\nThat slew himselfe: And Laertes sonne,\nDid graciously plead for his Funerals:\nLet not young Mutius then that was thy ioy,\nBe bar'd his entrance heere\nTit. Rise Marcus, rise,\nThe dismall'st day is this that ere I saw,\nTo be dishonored by my Sonnes in Rome:\nWell, bury him, and bury me the next.\nThey put him in the Tombe.\nLuc. There lie thy bones sweet Mutius with thy friends.\nTill we with Trophees do adorne thy Tombe.\nThey all kneele and say.\nNo man shed teares for Noble Mutius,\nHe liues in Fame, that di'd in vertues cause.\nEnter.\nMar. My Lord to step out of these sudden dumps,\nHow comes it that the subtile Queene of Gothes,\nIs of a sodaine thus aduanc'd in Rome?\nTi. I know not Marcus: but I know it is,\n(Whether by deuise or no) the heauens can tell,\nIs she not then beholding to the man,\nThat brought her for this high good turne so farre?\nYes, and will Nobly him remunerate.\nFlourish.\nEnter the Emperor, Tamora, and her two sons, with the Moore at\none doore.\nEnter at the other doore Bassianus and Lauinia with others.\nSat. So Bassianus, you haue plaid your prize,\nGod giue you ioy sir of your Gallant Bride\nBass. And you of yours my Lord: I say no more,\nNor wish no lesse, and so I take my leaue\nSat. Traytor, if Rome haue law, or we haue power,\nThou and thy Faction shall repent this Rape\nBass. Rape call you it my Lord, to cease my owne,\nMy true betrothed Loue, and now my wife?\nBut let the lawes of Rome determine all,\nMeane while I am possest of that is mine\nSat. 'Tis good sir: you are very short with vs,\nBut if we liue, weele be as sharpe with you\nBass. My Lord, what I haue done as best I may,\nAnswere I must, and shall do with my life,\nOnely thus much I giue your Grace to know,\nBy all the duties that I owe to Rome,\nThis Noble Gentleman Lord Titus heere,\nIs in opinion and in honour wrong'd,\nThat in the rescue of Lauinia,\nWith his owne hand did slay his youngest Son,\nIn zeale to you, and highly mou'd to wrath.\nTo be controul'd in that he frankly gaue:\nReceiue him then to fauour Saturnine,\nThat hath expre'st himselfe in all his deeds,\nA Father and a friend to thee, and Rome\nTit. Prince Bassianus leaue to plead my Deeds,\n'Tis thou, and those, that haue dishonoured me,\nRome and the righteous heauens be my iudge,\nHow I haue lou'd and Honour'd Saturnine\nTam. My worthy Lord if euer Tamora,\nWere gracious in those Princely eyes of thine,\nThen heare me speake indifferently for all:\nAnd at my sute (sweet) pardon what is past\nSatu. What Madam, be dishonoured openly,\nAnd basely put it vp without reuenge?\nTam. Not so my Lord,\nThe Gods of Rome fore-fend,\nI should be Authour to dishonour you.\nBut on mine honour dare, I vndertake\nFor good Lord Titus innocence in all:\nWhose fury not dissembled speakes his griefes:\nThen at my sute looke graciously on him,\nLoose not so noble a friend on vaine suppose,\nNor with sowre lookes afflict his gentle heart.\nMy Lord, be rul'd by me, be wonne at last,\nDissemble all your griefes and discontents,\nYou are but newly planted in your Throne,\nLeast then the people, and Patricians too,\nVpon a iust suruey take Titus part,\nAnd so supplant vs for ingratitude,\nWhich Rome reputes to be a hainous sinne.\nYeeld at intreats, and then let me alone:\nIle finde a day to massacre them all,\nAnd race their faction, and their familie,\nThe cruell Father, and his trayt'rous sonnes,\nTo whom I sued for my deare sonnes life.\nAnd make them know what 'tis to let a Queene.\nKneele in the streetes, and beg for grace in vaine.\nCome, come, sweet Emperour, (come Andronicus)\nTake vp this good old man, and cheere the heart,\nThat dies in tempest of thy angry frowne\nKing. Rise Titus, rise,\nMy Empresse hath preuail'd\nTitus. I thanke your Maiestie,\nAnd her my Lord.\nThese words, these lookes,\nInfuse new life in me\nTamo. Titus, I am incorparate in Rome,\nA Roman now adopted happily.\nAnd must aduise the Emperour for his good,\nThis day all quarrels die Andronicus.\nAnd let it be mine honour good my Lord,\nThat I haue reconcil'd your friends and you.\nFor you Prince Bassianus, I haue past\nMy word and promise to the Emperour,\nThat you will be more milde and tractable.\nAnd feare not Lords:\nAnd you Lauinia,\nBy my aduise all humbled on your knees,\nYou shall aske pardon of his Maiestie\nSon. We doe,\nAnd vow to heauen, and to his Highnes,\nThat what we did, was mildly, as we might,\nTendring our sisters honour and our owne\nMar. That on mine honour heere I do protest\nKing. Away and talke not, trouble vs no more\nTamora. Nay, nay,\nSweet Emperour, we must all be friends,\nThe Tribune and his Nephews kneele for grace,\nI will not be denied, sweet hart looke back\nKing. Marcus,\nFor thy sake and thy brothers heere,\nAnd at my louely Tamora's intreats,\nI doe remit these young mens haynous faults.\nStand vp: Lauinia, though you left me like a churle,\nI found a friend, and sure as death I sware,\nI would not part a Batchellour from the Priest.\nCome, if the Emperours Court can feast two Brides,\nYou are my guest Lauinia, and your friends:\nThis day shall be a Loue-day Tamora\nTit. To morrow and it please your Maiestie,\nTo hunt the Panther and the Hart with me,\nWith horne and Hound,\nWeele giue your Grace Bon iour\nSatur. Be it so Titus, and Gramercy to.\nExeunt.\nActus Secunda.\nFlourish. Enter Aaron alone.\nAron. Now climbeth Tamora Olympus toppe,\nSafe out of Fortunes shot, and sits aloft,\nSecure of Thunders cracke or lightning flash,\nAduanc'd about pale enuies threatning reach:\nAs when the golden Sunne salutes the morne,\nAnd hauing gilt the Ocean with his beames,\nGallops the Zodiacke in his glistering Coach,\nAnd ouer-lookes the highest piering hills:\nSo Tamora\nVpon her wit doth earthly honour waite,\nAnd vertue stoopes and trembles at her frowne.\nThen Aaron arme thy hart, and fit thy thoughts,\nTo mount aloft with thy Emperiall Mistris,\nAnd mount her pitch, whom thou in triumph long\nHast prisoner held, fettred in amorous chaines,\nAnd faster bound to Aarons charming eyes,\nThen is Prometheus ti'de to Caucasus.\nAway with slauish weedes, and idle thoughts,\nI will be bright and shine in Pearle and Gold,\nTo waite vpon this new made Empresse.\nTo waite said I? To wanton with this Queene,\nThis Goddesse, this Semirimis, this Queene.\nThis Syren, that will charme Romes Saturnine,\nAnd see his shipwracke, and his Common weales.\nHollo, what storme is this?\nEnter Chiron and Demetrius brauing.\nDem. Chiron thy yeres wants wit, thy wit wants edge\nAnd manners to intru'd where I am grac'd,\nAnd may for ought thou know'st affected be\nChi. Demetrius, thou doo'st ouer-weene in all,\nAnd so in this, to beare me downe with braues,\n'Tis not the difference of a yeere or two\nMakes me lesse gracious, or thee more fortunate:\nI am as able, and as fit, as thou,\nTo serue, and to deserue my Mistris grace,\nAnd that my sword vpon thee shall approue,\nAnd plead my passions for Lauinia's loue\nAron. Clubs, clubs, these louers will not keep the peace\nDem. Why Boy, although our mother (vnaduised)\nGaue you a daunsing Rapier by your side,\nAre you so desperate growne to threat your friends?\nGoe too: haue your Lath glued within your sheath,\nTill you know better how to handle it\nChi. Meane while sir, with the little skill I haue,\nFull well shalt thou perceiue how much I dare\nDeme. I Boy, grow ye so braue?\nThey drawe.\nAron. Why how now Lords?\nSo nere the Emperours Pallace dare you draw,\nAnd maintaine such a quarrell openly?\nFull well I wote, the ground of all this grudge.\nI would not for a million of Gold,\nThe cause were knowne to them it most concernes.\nNor would your noble mother for much more\nBe so dishonored in the Court of Rome:\nFor shame put vp\nDeme. Not I, till I haue sheath'd\nMy rapier in his bosome, and withall\nThrust these reprochfull speeches downe his throat,\nThat he hath breath'd in my dishonour heere\nChi. For that I am prepar'd, and full resolu'd,\nFoule spoken Coward,\nThat thundrest with thy tongue,\nAnd with thy weapon nothing dar'st performe\nAron. A way I say.\nNow by the Gods that warlike Gothes adore,\nThis pretty brabble will vndoo vs all:\nWhy Lords, and thinke you not how dangerous\nIt is to set vpon a Princes right?\nWhat is Lauinia then become so loose,\nOr Bassianus so degenerate,\nThat for her loue such quarrels may be broacht,\nWithout controulement, Iustice, or reuenge?\nYoung Lords beware, and should the Empresse know,\nThis discord ground, the musicke would not please\nChi. I care not I, knew she and all the world,\nI loue Lauinia more then all the world\nDemet. Youngling,\nLearne thou to make some meaner choise,\nLauinia is thine elder brothers hope\nAron. Why are ye mad? Or know ye not in Rome,\nHow furious and impatient they be,\nAnd cannot brooke Competitors in loue?\nI tell you Lords, you doe but plot your deaths,\nBy this deuise\nChi. Aaron, a thousand deaths would I propose,\nTo atchieue her whom I do loue\nAron. To atcheiue her, how?\nDeme. Why, mak'st thou it so strange?\nShee is a woman, therefore may be woo'd,\nShee is a woman, therfore may be wonne,\nShee is Lauinia therefore must be lou'd.\nWhat man, more water glideth by the Mill\nThen wots the Miller of, and easie it is\nOf a cut loafe to steale a shiue we know:\nThough Bassianus be the Emperours brother,\nBetter then he haue worne Vulcans badge\nAron. I, and as good as Saturninus may\nDeme. Then why should he dispaire that knowes to court it\nWith words, faire lookes, and liberality:\nWhat hast not thou full often strucke a Doe,\nAnd borne her cleanly by the Keepers nose?\nAron. Why then it seemes some certaine snatch or so\nWould serue your turnes\nChi. I so the turne were serued\nDeme. Aaron thou hast hit it\nAron. Would you had hit it too,\nThen should not we be tir'd with this adoo:\nWhy harke yee, harke yee, and are you such fooles,\nTo square for this? Would it offend you then?\nChi. Faith not me\nDeme. Nor me, so I were one\nAron. For shame be friends, & ioyne for that you iar:\n'Tis pollicie, and stratageme must doe\nThat you affect, and so must you resolue,\nThat what you cannot as you would atcheiue,\nYou must perforce accomplish as you may:\nTake this of me, Lucrece was not more chast\nThen this Lauinia, Bassianus loue,\nA speedier course this lingring languishment\nMust we pursue, and I haue found the path:\nMy Lords, a solemne hunting is in hand.\nThere will the louely Roman Ladies troope:\nThe Forrest walkes are wide and spacious,\nAnd many vnfrequented plots there are,\nFitted by kinde for rape and villanie:\nSingle you thither then this dainty Doe,\nAnd strike her home by force, if not by words:\nThis way or not at all, stand you in hope.\nCome, come, our Empresse with her sacred wit\nTo villainie and vengance consecrate,\nWill we acquaint with all that we intend,\nAnd she shall file our engines with aduise,\nThat will not suffer you to square your selues,\nBut to your wishes height aduance you both.\nThe Emperours Court is like the house of Fame,\nThe pallace full of tongues, of eyes, of eares:\nThe Woods are ruthlesse, dreadfull, deafe, and dull:\nThere speake, and strike braue Boyes, & take your turnes.\nThere serue your lusts, shadow'd from heauens eye,\nAnd reuell in Lauinia's Treasurie\nChi. Thy counsell Lad smells of no cowardise\nDeme. Sit fas aut nefas, till I finde the streames,\nTo coole this heat, a Charme to calme their fits,\nPer Stigia per manes Vehor.\nExeunt.\nEnter Titus Andronicus and his three sonnes, making a noyse with\nhounds\nand hornes, and Marcus.\nTit. The hunt is vp, the morne is bright and gray,\nThe fields are fragrant, and the Woods are greene,\nVncouple heere, and let vs make a bay,\nAnd wake the Emperour, and his louely Bride,\nAnd rouze the Prince, and ring a hunters peale,\nThat all the Court may eccho with the noyse.\nSonnes let it be your charge, as it is ours,\nTo attend the Emperours person carefully:\nI haue bene troubled in my sleepe this night,\nBut dawning day new comfort hath inspir'd.\nWinde Hornes.\nHeere a cry of houndes, and winde hornes in a peale, then Enter\nSaturninus, Tamora, Bassianus, Lauinia, Chiron, Demetrius, and\ntheir\nAttendants.\nTi. Many good morrowes to your Maiestie,\nMadam to you as many and as good.\nI promised your Grace, a Hunters peale\nSatur. And you haue rung it lustily my Lords,\nSomewhat to earely for new married Ladies\nBass. Lauinia, how say you?\nLaui. I say no:\nI haue bene awake two houres and more\nSatur. Come on then, horse and Chariots let vs haue,\nAnd to our sport: Madam, now shall ye see,\nOur Romaine hunting\nMar. I haue dogges my Lord,\nWill rouze the proudest Panther in the Chase,\nAnd clime the highest Promontary top\nTit. And I haue horse will follow where the game\nMakes way, and runnes likes Swallowes ore the plaine\nDeme. Chiron we hunt not we, with Horse nor Hound\nBut hope to plucke a dainty Doe to ground.\nExeunt.\nEnter Aaron alone.\nAron. He that had wit, would thinke that I had none,\nTo bury so much Gold vnder a Tree,\nAnd neuer after to inherit it.\nLet him that thinks of me so abiectly,\nKnow that this Gold must coine a Stratageme,\nWhich cunningly effected, will beget\nA very excellent peece of villany;\nAnd so repose sweet Gold for their vnrest,\nThat haue their Almes out of the Empresse Chest.\nEnter Tamora to the Moore.\nTamo. My louely Aaron,\nWherefore look'st thou sad,\nWhen euery thing doth make a Gleefull boast?\nThe Birds chaunt melody on euery bush,\nThe Snake lies rolled in the chearefull Sunne,\nThe greene leaues quiuer, with the cooling winde,\nAnd make a cheker'd shadow on the ground:\nVnder their sweete shade, Aaron let vs sit,\nAnd whil'st the babling Eccho mock's the Hounds,\nReplying shrilly to the well tun'd-Hornes,\nAs if a double hunt were heard at once,\nLet vs sit downe, and marke their yelping noyse:\nAnd after conflict, such as was suppos'd.\nThe wandring Prince and Dido once enioy'd,\nWhen with a happy storme they were surpris'd,\nAnd Curtain'd with a Counsaile-keeping Caue,\nWe may each wreathed in the others armes,\n(Our pastimes done) possesse a Golden slumber,\nWhiles Hounds and Hornes, and sweet Melodious Birds\nBe vnto vs, as is a Nurses Song\nOf Lullabie, to bring her Babe asleepe\nAron. Madame,\nThough Venus gouerne your desires,\nSaturne is Dominator ouer mine:\nWhat signifies my deadly standing eye,\nMy silence, and my Cloudy Melancholie,\nMy fleece of Woolly haire, that now vncurles,\nEuen as an Adder when she doth vnrowle\nTo do some fatall execution?\nNo Madam, these are no Veneriall signes,\nVengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,\nBlood, and reuenge, are Hammering in my head.\nHarke Tamora, the Empresse of my Soule,\nWhich neuer hopes more heauen, then rests in thee,\nThis is the day of Doome for Bassianus;\nHis Philomel must loose her tongue to day,\nThy Sonnes make Pillage of her Chastity,\nAnd wash their hands in Bassianus blood.\nSeest thou this Letter, take it vp I pray thee,\nAnd giue the King this fatall plotted Scrowle,\nNow question me no more, we are espied,\nHeere comes a parcell of our hopefull Booty,\nWhich dreads not yet their liues destruction.\nEnter Bassianus and Lauinia.\nTamo. Ah my sweet Moore:\nSweeter to me then life\nAron. No more great Empresse, Bassianus comes,\nBe crosse with him, and Ile goe fetch thy Sonnes\nTo backe thy quarrell what so ere they be\nBassi. Whom haue we heere?\nRomes Royall Empresse,\nVnfurnisht of our well beseeming troope?\nOr is it Dian habited like her,\nWho hath abandoned her holy Groues,\nTo see the generall Hunting in this Forrest?\nTamo. Sawcie controuler of our priuate steps:\nHad I the power, that some say Dian had,\nThy Temples should be planted presently.\nWith Hornes, as was Acteons, and the Hounds\nShould driue vpon his new transformed limbes,\nVnmannerly Intruder as thou art\nLaui. Vnder your patience gentle Empresse,\n'Tis thought you haue a goodly gift in Horning,\nAnd to be doubted, that your Moore and you\nAre singled forth to try experiments:\nIoue sheild your husband from his Hounds to day,\n'Tis pitty they should take him for a Stag\nBassi. Beleeue me Queene, your swarth Cymerion,\nDoth make your Honour of his bodies Hue,\nSpotted, detested, and abhominable.\nWhy are you sequestred from all your traine?\nDismounted from your Snow-white goodly Steed,\nAnd wandred hither to an obscure plot,\nAccompanied with a barbarous Moore,\nIf foule desire had not conducted you?\nLaui. And being intercepted in your sport,\nGreat reason that my Noble Lord, be rated\nFor Saucinesse, I pray you let vs hence,\nAnd let her ioy her Rauen coloured loue,\nThis valley fits the purpose passing well\nBassi. The King my Brother shall haue notice of this\nLaui. I, for these slips haue made him noted long,\nGood King, to be so mightily abused\nTamora. Why I haue patience to endure all this?\nEnter Chiron and Demetrius.\nDem. How now deere Soueraigne\nAnd our gracious Mother,\nWhy doth your Highnes looke so pale and wan?\nTamo. Haue I not reason thinke you to looke pale.\nThese two haue tic'd me hither to this place,\nA barren, detested vale you see it is.\nThe Trees though Sommer, yet forlorne and leane,\nOre-come with Mosse, and balefull Misselto.\nHeere neuer shines the Sunne, heere nothing breeds,\nVnlesse the nightly Owle, or fatall Rauen:\nAnd when they shew'd me this abhorred pit,\nThey told me heere at dead time of the night,\nA thousand Fiends, a thousand hissing Snakes,\nTen thousand swelling Toades, as many Vrchins,\nWould make such fearefull and confused cries,\nAs any mortall body hearing it,\nShould straite fall mad, or else die suddenly.\nNo sooner had they told this hellish tale,\nBut strait they told me they would binde me heere,\nVnto the body of a dismall yew,\nAnd leaue me to this miserable death.\nAnd then they call'd me foule Adulteresse,\nLasciuious Goth, and all the bitterest tearmes\nThat euer eare did heare to such effect.\nAnd had you not by wondrous fortune come,\nThis vengeance on me had they executed:\nReuenge it, as you loue your Mothers life,\nOr be ye not henceforth cal'd my Children\nDem. This is a witnesse that I am thy Sonne.\nstab him.\nChi. And this for me,\nStrook home to shew my strength\nLaui. I come Semeramis, nay Barbarous Tamora.\nFor no name fits thy nature but thy owne\nTam. Giue me thy poyniard, you shal know my boyes\nYour Mothers hand shall right your Mothers wrong\nDeme. Stay Madam heere is more belongs to her,\nFirst thrash the Corne, then after burne the straw:\nThis Minion stood vpon her chastity,\nVpon her Nuptiall vow, her loyaltie.\nAnd with that painted hope, braues your Mightinesse,\nAnd shall she carry this vnto her graue?\nChi. And if she doe,\nI would I were an Eunuch,\nDrag hence her husband to some secret hole,\nAnd make his dead Trunke-Pillow to our lust\nTamo. But when ye haue the hony we desire,\nLet not this Waspe out-liue vs both to sting\nChir. I warrant you Madam we will make that sure:\nCome Mistris, now perforce we will enioy,\nThat nice-preserued honesty of yours\nLaui. Oh Tamora, thou bear'st a woman face\nTamo. I will not heare her speake, away with her\nLaui. Sweet Lords intreat her heare me but a word\nDemet. Listen faire Madam, let it be your glory\nTo see her teares, but be your hart to them,\nAs vnrelenting flint to drops of raine\nLaui. When did the Tigers young-ones teach the dam?\nO doe not learne her wrath, she taught it thee,\nThe milke thou suck'st from her did turne to Marble,\nEuen at thy Teat thou had'st thy Tyranny,\nYet euery Mother breeds not Sonnes alike,\nDo thou intreat her shew a woman pitty\nChiro. What,\nWould'st thou haue me proue my selfe a bastard?\nLaui. 'Tis true,\nThe Rauen doth not hatch a Larke,\nYet haue I heard, Oh could I finde it now,\nThe Lion mou'd with pitty, did indure\nTo haue his Princely pawes par'd all away.\nSome say, that Rauens foster forlorne children,\nThe whil'st their owne birds famish in their nests:\nOh be to me though thy hard hart say no,\nNothing so kind but something pittifull\nTamo. I know not what it meanes, away with her\nLauin. Oh let me teach thee for my Fathers sake,\nThat gaue thee life when well he might haue slaine thee:\nBe not obdurate, open thy deafe eares\nTamo. Had'st thou in person nere offended me.\nEuen for his sake am I pittilesse:\nRemember Boyes I powr'd forth teares in vaine,\nTo saue your brother from the sacrifice,\nBut fierce Andronicus would not relent,\nTherefore away with her, and vse her as you will,\nThe worse to her, the better lou'd of me\nLaui. Oh Tamora,\nBe call'd a gentle Queene,\nAnd with thine owne hands kill me in this place,\nFor 'tis not life that I haue beg'd so long,\nPoore I was slaine, when Bassianus dy'd\nTam. What beg'st thou then? fond woman let me go?\nLaui. 'Tis present death I beg, and one thing more,\nThat womanhood denies my tongue to tell:\nOh keepe me from their worse then killing lust,\nAnd tumble me into some loathsome pit,\nWhere neuer mans eye may behold my body,\nDoe this, and be a charitable murderer\nTam. So should I rob my sweet Sonnes of their fee,\nNo let them satisfie their lust on thee\nDeme. Away,\nFor thou hast staid vs heere too long\nLauinia. No Grace,\nNo womanhood? Ah beastly creature,\nThe blot and enemy to our generall name,\nConfusion fall-\nChi. Nay then Ile stop your mouth\nBring thou her husband,\nThis is the Hole where Aaron bid vs hide him\nTam. Farewell my Sonnes, see that you make her sure,\nNere let my heart know merry cheere indeed,\nTill all the Andronici be made away:\nNow will I hence to seeke my louely Moore,\nAnd let my spleenefull Sonnes this Trull defloure.\nEnter.\nEnter Aaron with two of Titus Sonnes.\nAron. Come on my Lords, the better foote before,\nStraight will I bring you to the lothsome pit,\nWhere I espied the Panther fast asleepe\nQuin. My sight is very dull what ere it bodes\nMarti. And mine I promise you, were it not for shame,\nWell could I leaue our sport to sleepe a while\nQuin. What art thou fallen?\nWhat subtile Hole is this,\nWhose mouth is couered with Rude growing Briers,\nVpon whose leaues are drops of new-shed-blood,\nAs fresh as mornings dew distil'd on flowers,\nA very fatall place it seemes to me:\nSpeake Brother hast thou hurt thee with the fall?\nMartius. Oh Brother,\nWith the dismal'st obiect\nThat euer eye with sight made heart lament\nAron. Now will I fetch the King to finde them heere,\nThat he thereby may haue a likely gesse,\nHow these were they that made away his Brother.\nExit Aaron.\nMarti. Why dost not comfort me and helpe me out,\nFrom this vnhallow'd and blood-stained Hole?\nQuintus. I am surprised with an vncouth feare,\nA chilling sweat ore-runs my trembling ioynts,\nMy heart suspects more then mine eie can see\nMarti. To proue thou hast a true diuining heart,\nAaron and thou looke downe into this den,\nAnd see a fearefull sight of blood and death\nQuintus. Aaron is gone,\nAnd my compassionate heart\nWill not permit mine eyes once to behold\nThe thing whereat it trembles by surmise:\nOh tell me how it is, for nere till now\nWas I a child to feare I know not what\nMarti. Lord Bassianus lies embrewed heere,\nAll on a heape like to the slaughtred Lambe,\nIn this detested, darke, blood-drinking pit\nQuin. If it be darke, how doost thou know 'tis he?\nMart. Vpon his bloody finger he doth weare\nA precious Ring, that lightens all the Hole:\nWhich like a Taper in some Monument,\nDoth shine vpon the dead mans earthly cheekes,\nAnd shewes the ragged intrailes of the pit:\nSo pale did shine the Moone on Piramus,\nWhen he by night lay bath'd in Maiden blood:\nO Brother helpe me with thy fainting hand.\nIf feare hath made thee faint, as mee it hath,\nOut of this fell deuouring receptacle,\nAs hatefull as Ocitus mistie mouth\nQuint. Reach me thy hand, that I may helpe thee out,\nOr wanting strength to doe thee so much good,\nI may be pluckt into the swallowing wombe,\nOf this deepe pit, poore Bassianus graue:\nI haue no strength to plucke thee to the brinke\nMartius. Nor I no strength to clime without thy help\nQuin. Thy hand once more, I will not loose againe,\nTill thou art heere aloft, or I below,\nThou can'st not come to me, I come to thee.\nBoth fall in.\nEnter the Emperour, Aaron the Moore.\nSatur. Along with me, Ile see what hole is heere,\nAnd what he is that now is leapt into it.\nSay, who art thou that lately did'st descend,\nInto this gaping hollow of the earth?\nMarti. The vnhappie sonne of old Andronicus,\nBrought hither in a most vnluckie houre,\nTo finde thy brother Bassianus dead\nSatur. My brother dead? I know thou dost but iest,\nHe and his Lady both are at the Lodge,\nVpon the North-side of this pleasant Chase,\n'Tis not an houre since I left him there\nMarti. We know not where you left him all aliue,\nBut out alas, heere haue we found him dead.\nEnter Tamora, Andronicus, and Lucius.\nTamo. Where is my Lord the King?\nKing. Heere Tamora, though grieu'd with killing griefe\nTam. Where is thy brother Bassianus?\nKing. Now to the bottome dost thou search my wound,\nPoore Bassianus heere lies murthered\nTam. Then all too late I bring this fatall writ,\nThe complot of this timelesse Tragedie,\nAnd wonder greatly that mans face can fold,\nIn pleasing smiles such murderous Tyrannie.\nShe giueth Saturnine a Letter.\nSaturninus reads the Letter. And if we misse to meete him\nhansomely,\nSweet huntsman, Bassianus 'tis we meane,\nDoe thou so much as dig the graue for him,\nThou know'st our meaning, looke for thy reward\nAmong the Nettles at the Elder tree:\nWhich ouer-shades the mouth of that same pit:\nWhere we decreed to bury Bassianuss\nDoe this and purchase vs thy lasting friends\nKing. Oh Tamora, was euer heard the like?\nThis is the pit, and this the Elder tree,\nLooke sirs, if you can finde the huntsman out,\nThat should haue murthered Bassianus heere\nAron. My gracious Lord heere is the bag of Gold\nKing. Two of thy whelpes, fell Curs of bloody kind\nHaue heere bereft my brother of his life:\nSirs drag them from the pit vnto the prison,\nThere let them bide vntill we haue deuis'd\nSome neuer heard-of tortering paine for them\nTamo. What are they in this pit,\nOh wondrous thing!\nHow easily murder is discouered?\nTit. High Emperour, vpon my feeble knee,\nI beg this boone, with teares, not lightly shed,\nThat this fell fault of my accursed Sonnes,\nAccursed, if the faults be prou'd in them\nKing. If it be prou'd? you see it is apparant,\nWho found this Letter, Tamora was it you?\nTamora. Andronicus himselfe did take it vp\nTit. I did my Lord,\nYet let me be their baile,\nFor by my Fathers reuerent Tombe I vow\nThey shall be ready at your Highnes will,\nTo answere their suspition with their liues\nKing. Thou shalt not baile them, see thou follow me:\nSome bring the murthered body, some the murtherers,\nLet them not speake a word, the guilt is plaine,\nFor by my soule, were there worse end then death,\nThat end vpon them should be executed\nTamo. Andronicus I will entreat the King,\nFeare not thy Sonnes, they shall do well enough\nTit. Come Lucius come,\nStay not to talke with them.\nExeunt.\nEnter the Empresse Sonnes, with Lauinia, her hands cut off and\nher tongue\ncut out, and rauisht.\nDeme. So now goe tell and if thy tongue can speake,\nWho t'was that cut thy tongue and rauisht thee\nChi. Write downe thy mind, bewray thy meaning so,\nAnd if thy stumpes will let thee play the Scribe\nDem. See how with signes and tokens she can scowle\nChi. Goe home,\nCall for sweet water, wash thy hands\nDem. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash.\nAnd so let's leaue her to her silent walkes\nChi. And t'were my cause, I should goe hang my selfe\nDem. If thou had'st hands to helpe thee knit the cord.\nExeunt.\nWinde Hornes.\nEnter Marcus from hunting, to Lauinia.\nWho is this, my Neece that flies away so fast?\nCosen a word, where is your husband?\nIf I do dreame, would all my wealth would wake me;\nIf I doe wake, some Planet strike me downe,\nThat I may slumber in eternall sleepe.\nSpeake gentle Neece, what sterne vngentle hands\nHath lopt, and hew'd, and made thy body bare\nOf her two branches, those sweet Ornaments\nWhose circkling shadowes, Kings haue sought to sleep in\nAnd might not gaine so great a happines\nAs halfe thy Loue: Why doost not speake to me?\nAlas, a Crimson riuer of warme blood,\nLike to a bubling fountaine stir'd with winde,\nDoth rise and fall betweene thy Rosed lips,\nComming and going with thy hony breath.\nBut sure some Tereus hath defloured thee,\nAnd least thou should'st detect them, cut thy tongue.\nAh, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame:\nAnd notwithstanding all this losse of blood,\nAs from a Conduit with their issuing Spouts,\nYet doe thy cheekes looke red as Titans face,\nBlushing to be encountred with a Cloud,\nShall I speake for thee? shall I say 'tis so?\nOh that I knew thy hart, and knew the beast\nThat I might raile at him to ease my mind.\nSorrow concealed, like an Ouen stopt.\nDoth burne the hart to Cinders where it is.\nFaire Philomela she but lost her tongue,\nAnd in a tedious Sampler sowed her minde.\nBut louely Neece, that meane is cut from thee,\nA craftier Tereus hast thou met withall,\nAnd he hath cut those pretty fingers off,\nThat could haue better sowed then Philomel.\nOh had the monster seene those Lilly hands,\nTremble like Aspen leaues vpon a Lute,\nAnd make the silken strings delight to kisse them,\nHe would not then haue toucht them for his life.\nOr had he heard the heauenly Harmony,\nWhich that sweet tongue hath made:\nHe would haue dropt his knife and fell asleepe,\nAs Cerberus at the Thracian Poets feete.\nCome, let vs goe, and make thy father blinde,\nFor such a sight will blinde a fathers eye.\nOne houres storme will drowne the fragrant meades,\nWhat, will whole months of teares thy Fathers eyes?\nDoe not draw backe, for we will mourne with thee:\nOh could our mourning ease thy misery.\nExeunt.\nActus Tertius.\nEnter the Iudges and Senatours with Titus two sonnes bound,\npassing on\nthe Stage to the place of execution, and Titus going before\npleading.\nTi. Heare me graue fathers, noble Tribunes stay,\nFor pitty of mine age, whose youth was spent\nIn dangerous warres, whilst you securely slept:\nFor all my blood in Romes great quarrell shed,\nFor all the frosty nights that I haue watcht,\nAnd for these bitter teares, which now you see,\nFilling the aged wrinkles in my cheekes,\nBe pittifull to my condemned Sonnes,\nWhose soules is not corrupted as 'tis thought:\nFor two and twenty sonnes I neuer wept,\nBecause they died in honours lofty bed.\nAndronicus lyeth downe, and the Iudges passe by him.\nFor these, Tribunes, in the dust I write\nMy harts deepe languor, and my soules sad teares:\nLet my teares stanch the earths drie appetite.\nMy sonnes sweet blood, will make it shame and blush:\nO earth! I will be friend thee more with raine\nExeunt.\nThat shall distill from these two ancient ruines,\nThen youthfull Aprill shall with all his showres\nIn summers drought: Ile drop vpon thee still,\nIn Winter with warme teares Ile melt the snow,\nAnd keepe eternall spring time on thy face,\nSo thou refuse to drinke my deare sonnes blood.\nEnter Lucius, with his weapon drawne.\nOh reuerent Tribunes, oh gentle aged men,\nVnbinde my sonnes, reuerse the doome of death,\nAnd let me say (that neuer wept before)\nMy teares are now preualing Oratours\nLu. Oh noble father, you lament in vaine,\nThe Tribunes heare not, no man is by,\nAnd you recount your sorrowes to a stone\nTi. Ah Lucius for thy brothers let me plead,\nGraue Tribunes, once more I intreat of you\nLu. My gracious Lord, no Tribune heares you speake\nTi. Why 'tis no matter man, if they did heare\nThey would not marke me: oh if they did heare\nThey would not pitty me.\nTherefore I tell my sorrowes bootles to the stones.\nWho though they cannot answere my distresse,\nYet in some sort they are better then the Tribunes,\nFor that they will not intercept my tale;\nWhen I doe weepe, they humbly at my feete\nReceiue my teares, and seeme to weepe with me,\nAnd were they but attired in graue weedes,\nRome could afford no Tribune like to these.\nA stone is as soft waxe,\nTribunes more hard then stones:\nA stone is silent, and offendeth not,\nAnd Tribunes with their tongues doome men to death.\nBut wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawne?\nLu. To rescue my two brothers from their death,\nFor which attempt the Iudges haue pronounc'st\nMy euerlasting doome of banishment\nTi. O happy man, they haue befriended thee:\nWhy foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceiue\nThat Rome is but a wildernes of Tigers?\nTigers must pray, and Rome affords no prey\nBut me and mine: how happy art thou then,\nFrom these deuourers to be banished?\nBut who comes with our brother Marcus heere?\nEnter Marcus and Lauinia.\nMar. Titus, prepare thy noble eyes to weepe,\nOr if not so, thy noble heart to breake:\nI bring consuming sorrow to thine age\nTi. Will it consume me? Let me see it then\nMar. This was thy daughter\nTi. Why Marcus so she is\nLuc. Aye me this obiect kils me\nTi. Faint-harted boy, arise and looke vpon her,\nSpeake Lauinia, what accursed hand\nHath made thee handlesse in thy Fathers sight?\nWhat foole hath added water to the Sea?\nOr brought a faggot to bright burning Troy?\nMy griefe was at the height before thou cam'st,\nAnd now like Nylus it disdaineth bounds:\nGiue me a sword, Ile chop off my hands too,\nFor they haue fought for Rome, and all in vaine:\nAnd they haue nur'st this woe,\nIn feeding life:\nIn bootelesse prayer haue they bene held vp,\nAnd they haue seru'd me to effectlesse vse.\nNow all the seruice I require of them,\nIs that the one will helpe to cut the other:\n'Tis well Lauinia, that thou hast no hands,\nFor hands to do Rome seruice, is but vaine\nLuci. Speake gentle sister, who hath martyr'd thee?\nMar. O that delightfull engine of her thoughts,\nThat blab'd them with such pleasing eloquence,\nIs torne from forth that pretty hollow cage,\nWhere like a sweet mellodius bird it sung,\nSweet varied notes inchanting euery eare\nLuci. Oh say thou for her,\nWho hath done this deed?\nMarc. Oh thus I found her straying in the Parke,\nSeeking to hide herselfe as doth the Deare\nThat hath receiude some vnrecuring wound\nTit. It was my Deare,\nAnd he that wounded her,\nHath hurt me more, then had he kild me dead:\nFor now I stand as one vpon a Rocke,\nInuiron'd with a wildernesse of Sea.\nWho markes the waxing tide,\nGrow waue by waue,\nExpecting euer when some enuious surge,\nWill in his brinish bowels swallow him.\nThis way to death my wretched sonnes are gone:\nHeere stands my other sonne, a banisht man,\nAnd heere my brother weeping at my woes.\nBut that which giues my soule the greatest spurne,\nIs deere Lauinia, deerer then my soule.\nHad I but seene thy picture in this plight,\nIt would haue madded me. What shall I doe?\nNow I behold thy liuely body so?\nThou hast no hands to wipe away thy teares,\nNor tongue to tell me who hath martyr'd thee:\nThy husband he is dead, and for his death\nThy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this.\nLooke Marcus, ah sonne Lucius looke on her:\nWhen I did name her brothers, then fresh teares\nStood on her cheekes, as doth the hony dew,\nVpon a gathred Lillie almost withered\nMar. Perchance she weepes because they kil'd her\nhusband,\nPerchance because she knowes him innocent\nTi. If they did kill thy husband then be ioyfull,\nBecause the law hath tane reuenge on them.\nNo, no, they would not doe so foule a deede,\nWitnes the sorrow that their sister makes.\nGentle Lauinia let me kisse thy lips,\nOr make some signes how I may do thee ease:\nShall thy good Vncle, and thy brother Lucius,\nAnd thou and I sit round about some Fountaine,\nLooking all downewards to behold our cheekes\nHow they are stain'd in meadowes, yet not dry\nWith miery slime left on them by a flood:\nAnd in the Fountaine shall we gaze so long,\nTill the fresh taste be taken from that cleerenes,\nAnd made a brine pit with our bitter teares?\nOr shall we cut away our hands like thine?\nOr shall we bite our tongues, and in dumbe shewes\nPasse the remainder of our hatefull dayes?\nWhat shall we doe? Let vs that haue our tongues\nPlot some deuise of further miseries\nTo make vs wondred at in time to come\nLu. Sweet Father cease your teares, for at your griefe\nSee how my wretched sister sobs and weeps\nMar. Patience deere Neece, good Titus drie thine\neyes\nTi. Ah Marcus, Marcus, Brother well I wot,\nThy napkin cannot drinke a teare of mine,\nFor thou poore man hast drown'd it with thine owne\nLu. Ah my Lauinia I will wipe thy cheekes\nTi. Marke Marcus marke, I vnderstand her signes,\nHad she a tongue to speake, now would she say\nThat to her brother which I said to thee.\nHis Napkin with her true teares all bewet,\nCan do no seruice on her sorrowfull cheekes.\nOh what a simpathy of woe is this!\nAs farre from helpe as Limbo is from blisse,\nEnter Aron the Moore alone.\nMoore. Titus Andronicus, my Lord the Emperour,\nSends thee this word, that if thou loue thy sonnes,\nLet Marcus, Lucius, or thy selfe old Titus,\nOr any one of you, chop off your hand,\nAnd send it to the King: he for the same,\nWill send thee hither both thy sonnes aliue,\nAnd that shall be the ransome for their fault\nTi. Oh gracious Emperour, oh gentle Aaron.\nDid euer Rauen sing so like a Larke,\nThat giues sweet tydings of the Sunnes vprise?\nWith all my heart, Ile send the Emperour my hand,\nGood Aron wilt thou help to chop it off?\nLu. Stay Father, for that noble hand of thine,\nThat hath throwne downe so many enemies,\nShall not be sent: my hand will serue the turne,\nMy youth can better spare my blood then you,\nAnd therfore mine shall saue my brothers liues\nMar. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome,\nAnd rear'd aloft the bloody Battleaxe,\nWriting destruction on the enemies Castle?\nOh none of both but are of high desert:\nMy hand hath bin but idle, let it serue\nTo ransome my two nephewes from their death,\nThen haue I kept it to a worthy end\nMoore. Nay come agree, whose hand shall goe along\nFor feare they die before their pardon come\nMar. My hand shall goe\nLu. By heauen it shall not goe\nTi. Sirs striue no more, such withered hearbs as these\nAre meete for plucking vp, and therefore mine\nLu. Sweet Father, if I shall be thought thy sonne,\nLet me redeeme my brothers both from death\nMar. And for our fathers sake, and mothers care,\nNow let me shew a brothers loue to thee\nTi. Agree betweene you, I will spare my hand\nLu. Then Ile goe fetch an Axe\nMar. But I will vse the Axe.\nExeunt.\nTi. Come hither Aaron, Ile deceiue them both,\nLend me thy hand, and I will giue thee mine,\nMoore. If that be cal'd deceit, I will be honest,\nAnd neuer whil'st I liue deceiue men so:\nBut Ile deceiue you in another sort,\nAnd that you'l say ere halfe an houre passe.\nHe cuts off Titus hand.\nEnter Lucius and Marcus againe.\nTi. Now stay your strife, what shall be, is dispatcht:\nGood Aron giue his Maiestie my hand,\nTell him, it was a hand that warded him\nFrom thousand dangers: bid him bury it:\nMore hath it merited: That let it haue.\nAs for my sonnes, say I account of them,\nAs iewels purchast at an easie price,\nAnd yet deere too, because I bought mine owne\nAron. I goe Andronicus, and for thy hand,\nLooke by and by to haue thy sonnes with thee:\nTheir heads I meane: Oh how this villany\nDoth fat me with the very thoughts of it.\nLet fooles doe good, and faire men call for grace,\nAron will haue his soule blacke like his face.\nEnter.\nTi. O heere I lift this one hand vp to heauen,\nAnd bow this feeble ruine to the earth,\nIf any power pitties wretched teares,\nTo that I call: what wilt thou kneele with me?\nDoe then deare heart, for heauen shall heare our prayers,\nOr with our sighs weele breath the welkin dimme,\nAnd staine the Sun with fogge as somtime cloudes,\nWhen they do hug him in their melting bosomes\nMar. Oh brother speake with possibilities,\nAnd do not breake into these deepe extreames\nTi. Is not my sorrow deepe, hauing no bottome?\nThen be my passions bottomlesse with them\nMar. But yet let reason gouerne thy lament\nTitus. If there were reason for these miseries,\nThen into limits could I binde my woes:\nWhen heauen doth weepe, doth not the earth oreflow?\nIf the windes rage, doth not the Sea wax mad,\nThreatning the welkin with his big-swolne face?\nAnd wilt thou haue a reason for this coile?\nI am the Sea. Harke how her sighes doe flow:\nShee is the weeping welkin, I the earth:\nThen must my Sea be moued with her sighes,\nThen must my earth with her continuall teares,\nBecome a deluge: ouerflow'd and drown'd:\nFor why, my bowels cannot hide her woes,\nBut like a drunkard must I vomit them:\nThen giue me leaue, for loosers will haue leaue,\nTo ease their stomackes with their bitter tongues,\nEnter a messenger with two heads and a hand.\nMess. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid,\nFor that good hand thou sentst the Emperour:\nHeere are the heads of thy two noble sonnes.\nAnd heeres thy hand in scorne to thee sent backe:\nThy griefes, their sports: Thy resolution mockt,\nThat woe is me to thinke vpon thy woes,\nMore then remembrance of my fathers death.\nEnter.\nMarc. Now let hot aetna coole in Cicilie,\nAnd be my heart an euer-burning hell:\nThese miseries are more then may be borne.\nTo weepe with them that weepe, doth ease some deale,\nBut sorrow flouted at, is double death\nLuci. Ah that this sight should make so deep a wound,\nAnd yet detested life not shrinke thereat:\nThat euer death should let life beare his name,\nWhere life hath no more interest but to breath\nMar. Alas poore hart that kisse is comfortlesse,\nAs frozen water to a starued snake\nTitus. When will this fearefull slumber haue an end?\nMar. Now farwell flatterie, die Andronicus,\nThou dost not slumber, see thy two sons heads,\nThy warlike hands, thy mangled daughter here:\nThy other banisht sonnes with this deere sight\nStrucke pale and bloodlesse, and thy brother I,\nEuen like a stony Image, cold and numme.\nAh now no more will I controule my griefes,\nRent off thy siluer haire, thy other hand\nGnawing with thy teeth, and be this dismall sight\nThe closing vp of our most wretched eyes:\nNow is a time to storme, why art thou still?\nTitus. Ha, ha, ha,\nMar. Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this houre\nTi. Why I haue not another teare to shed:\nBesides, this sorrow is an enemy,\nAnd would vsurpe vpon my watry eyes,\nAnd make them blinde with tributarie teares.\nThen which way shall I finde Reuenges Caue?\nFor these two heads doe seeme to speake to me,\nAnd threat me, I shall neuer come to blisse,\nTill all these mischiefes be returned againe,\nEuen in their throats that haue committed them.\nCome let me see what taske I haue to doe,\nYou heauie people, circle me about,\nThat I may turne me to each one of you,\nAnd sweare vnto my soule to right your wrongs.\nThe vow is made, come Brother take a head,\nAnd in this hand the other will I beare.\nAnd Lauinia thou shalt be employd in these things:\nBeare thou my hand sweet wench betweene thy teeth:\nAs for thee boy, goe get thee from my sight,\nThou art an Exile, and thou must not stay,\nHie to the Gothes, and raise an army there,\nAnd if you loue me, as I thinke you doe,\nLet's kisse and part, for we haue much to doe.\nExeunt.\nManet Lucius.\nLuci. Farewell Andronicus my noble Father:\nThe woful'st man that euer liu'd in Rome:\nFarewell proud Rome, til Lucius come againe,\nHe loues his pledges dearer then his life:\nFarewell Lauinia my noble sister,\nO would thou wert as thou to fore hast beene,\nBut now, nor Lucius nor Lauinia liues\nBut in obliuion and hateful griefes:\nIf Lucius liue, he will requit your wrongs,\nAnd make proud Saturnine and his Empresse\nBeg at the gates like Tarquin and his Queene.\nNow will I to the Gothes and raise a power,\nTo be reueng'd on Rome and Saturnine.\nExit Lucius\nA Banket.\nEnter Andronicus, Marcus, Lauinia, and the Boy.\nAn. So, so, now sit, and looke you eate no more\nThen will preserue iust so much strength in vs\nAs will reuenge these bitter woes of ours.\nMarcus vnknit that sorrow-wreathen knot:\nThy Neece and I (poore Creatures) want our hands\nAnd cannot passionate our tenfold griefe,\nWith foulded Armes. This poore right hand of mine,\nIs left to tirranize vppon my breast.\nWho when my hart all mad with misery,\nBeats in this hollow prison of my flesh,\nThen thus I thumpe it downe.\nThou Map of woe, that thus dost talk in signes,\nWhen thy poore hart beates without ragious beating,\nThou canst not strike it thus to make it still?\nWound it with sighing girle, kil it with grones:\nOr get some little knife betweene thy teeth,\nAnd iust against thy hart make thou a hole,\nThat all the teares that thy poore eyes let fall\nMay run into that sinke, and soaking in,\nDrowne the lamenting foole, in Sea salt teares\nMar. Fy brother fy, teach her not thus to lay\nSuch violent hands vppon her tender life\nAn. How now! Has sorrow made thee doate already?\nWhy Marcus, no man should be mad but I:\nWhat violent hands can she lay on her life:\nAh, wherefore dost thou vrge the name of hands,\nTo bid Aeneas tell the tale twice ore\nHow Troy was burnt, and he made miserable?\nO handle not the theame, to talke of hands,\nLeast we remember still that we haue none,\nFie, fie, how Frantiquely I square my talke\nAs if we should forget we had no hands:\nIf Marcus did not name the word of hands.\nCome, lets fall too, and gentle girle eate this,\nHeere is no drinke? Harke Marcus what she saies,\nI can interpret all her martir'd signes,\nShe saies, she drinkes no other drinke but teares\nBreu'd with her sorrow: mesh'd vppon her cheekes,\nSpeechlesse complayner, I will learne thy thought:\nIn thy dumb action, will I be as perfect\nAs begging Hermits in their holy prayers.\nThou shalt not sighe nor hold thy stumps to heauen,\nNor winke, nor nod, nor kneele, nor make a signe;\nBut I (of these) will wrest an Alphabet,\nAnd by still practice, learne to know thy meaning\nBoy. Good grandsire leaue these bitter deepe laments,\nMake my Aunt merry, with some pleasing tale\nMar. Alas, the tender boy in passion mou'd,\nDoth weepe to see his grandsires heauinesse\nAn. Peace tender Sapling, thou art made of teares,\nAnd teares will quickly melt thy life away.\nMarcus strikes the dish with a knife.\nWhat doest thou strike at Marcus with knife\nMar. At that that I haue kil'd my Lord, a Fly\nAn. Out on the murderour: thou kil'st my hart,\nMine eyes cloi'd with view of Tirranie:\nA deed of death done on the Innocent\nBecoms not Titus brother: get thee gone,\nI see thou art not for my company\nMar. Alas (my Lord) I haue but kild a flie\nAn. But? How: if that Flie had a father and mother?\nHow would he hang his slender gilded wings\nAnd buz lamenting doings in the ayer,\nPoore harmelesse Fly,\nThat with his pretty buzing melody,\nCame heere to make vs merry,\nAnd thou hast kil'd him\nMar. Pardon me sir,\nIt was a blacke illfauour'd Fly,\nLike to the Empresse Moore, therefore I kild him\nAn. O, o, o,\nThen pardon me for reprehending thee,\nFor thou hast done a Charitable deed:\nGiue me thy knife, I will insult on him,\nFlattering my selfe, as if it were the Moore,\nCome hither purposely to poyson me.\nThere's for thy selfe, and thats for Tamora: Ah sirra,\nYet I thinke we are not brought so low,\nBut that betweene vs, we can kill a Fly,\nThat comes in likenesse of a Cole-blacke Moore\nMar. Alas poore man, griefe ha's so wrought on him,\nHe takes false shadowes, for true substances\nAn. Come, take away: Lauinia, goe with me,\nIle to thy closset, and goe read with thee\nSad stories, chanced in the times of old.\nCome boy, and goe with me, thy sight is young,\nAnd thou shalt read, when mine begin to dazell.\nExeunt.\nActus Quartus.\nEnter young Lucius and Lauinia running after him, and the Boy\nflies from\nher with his bookes vnder his arme. Enter Titus and Marcus.\nBoy. Helpe Gransier helpe, my Aunt Lauinia,\nFollowes me euery where I know not why.\nGood Vncle Marcus see how swift she comes,\nAlas sweet Aunt, I know not what you meane\nMar. Stand by me Lucius, doe not feare thy Aunt\nTitus. She loues thee boy too well to doe thee harme\nBoy. I when my father was in Rome she did\nMar. What meanes my Neece Lauinia by these signes?\nTi. Feare not Lucius, somewhat doth she meane:\nSee Lucius see, how much she makes of thee:\nSome whether would she haue thee goe with her.\nAh boy, Cornelia neuer with more care\nRead to her sonnes, then she hath read to thee,\nSweet Poetry, and Tullies Oratour:\nCanst thou not gesse wherefore she plies thee thus?\nBoy. My Lord I know not I, nor can I gesse,\nVnlesse some fit or frenzie do possesse her:\nFor I haue heard my Gransier say full oft,\nExtremitie of griefes would make men mad.\nAnd I haue read that Hecuba of Troy,\nRan mad through sorrow, that made me to feare,\nAlthough my Lord, I know my noble Aunt,\nLoues me as deare as ere my mother did,\nAnd would not but in fury fright my youth,\nWhich made me downe to throw my bookes, and flie\nCausles perhaps, but pardon me sweet Aunt,\nAnd Madam, if my Vncle Marcus goe,\nI will most willingly attend your Ladyship\nMar. Lucius I will\nTi. How now Lauinia, Marcus what meanes this?\nSome booke there is that she desires to see,\nWhich is it girle of these? Open them boy,\nBut thou art deeper read and better skild,\nCome and take choyse of all my Library,\nAnd so beguile thy sorrow, till the heauens\nReueale the damn'd contriuer of this deed.\nWhat booke?\nWhy lifts she vp her armes in sequence thus?\nMar. I thinke she meanes that ther was more then one\nConfederate in the fact, I more there was:\nOr else to heauen she heaues them to reuenge\nTi. Lucius what booke is that she tosseth so?\nBoy. Grandsier 'tis Ouids Metamorphosis,\nMy mother gaue it me\nMar. For loue of her that's gone,\nPerhaps she culd it from among the rest\nTi. Soft, so busily she turnes the leaues,\nHelpe her, what would she finde? Lauinia shall I read?\nThis is the tragicke tale of Philomel?\nAnd treates of Tereus treason and his rape,\nAnd rape I feare was roote of thine annoy\nMar. See brother see, note how she quotes the leaues\nTi. Lauinia, wert thou thus surpriz'd sweet girle,\nRauisht and wrong'd as Philomela was?\nForc'd in the ruthlesse, vast, and gloomy woods?\nSee, see, I such a place there is where we did hunt,\n(O had we neuer, neuer hunted there)\nPatern'd by that the Poet heere describes,\nBy nature made for murthers and for rapes\nMar. O why should nature build so foule a den,\nVnlesse the Gods delight in tragedies?\nTi. Giue signes sweet girle, for heere are none but friends\nWhat Romaine Lord it was durst do the deed?\nOr slunke not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst,\nThat left the Campe to sinne in Lucrece bed\nMar. Sit downe sweet Neece, brother sit downe by me,\nAppollo, Pallas, Ioue, or Mercury,\nInspire me that I may this treason finde.\nMy Lord looke heere, looke heere Lauinia.\nHe writes his Name with his staffe, and guides it with feete and\nmouth.\nThis sandie plot is plaine, guide if thou canst\nThis after me, I haue writ my name,\nWithout the helpe of any hand at all.\nCurst be that hart that forc'st vs to that shift:\nWrite thou good Neece, and heere display at last,\nWhat God will haue discouered for reuenge,\nHeauen guide thy pen to print thy sorrowes plaine,\nThat we may know the Traytors and the truth.\nShe takes the staffe in her mouth, and guides it with her stumps\nand\nwrites.\nTi. Oh doe ye read my Lord what she hath writ?\nStuprum, Chiron, Demetrius\nMar. What, what, the lustfull sonnes of Tamora,\nPerformers of this hainous bloody deed?\nTi. Magni Dominator poli,\nTam lentus audis scelera, tam lentus vides?\nMar. Oh calme thee gentle Lord: Although I know\nThere is enough written vpon this earth,\nTo stirre a mutinie in the mildest thoughts,\nAnd arme the mindes of infants to exclaimes.\nMy Lord kneele downe with me: Lauinia kneele,\nAnd kneele sweet boy, the Romaine Hectors hope,\nAnd sweare with me, as with the wofull Feere\nAnd father of that chast dishonoured Dame,\nLord Iunius Brutus sweare for Lucrece rape,\nThat we will prosecute (by good aduise)\nMortall reuenge vpon these traytorous Gothes,\nAnd see their blood, or die with this reproach\nTi. Tis sure enough, and you knew how.\nBut if you hunt these Beare-whelpes, then beware\nThe Dam will wake, and if she winde you once,\nShee's with the Lyon deepely still in league.\nAnd lulls him whilst she playeth on her backe,\nAnd when he sleepes will she do what she list.\nYou are a young huntsman Marcus, let it alone:\nAnd come, I will goe get a leafe of brasse,\nAnd with a Gad of steele will write these words,\nAnd lay it by: the angry Northerne winde\nWill blow these sands like Sibels leaues abroad,\nAnd wheres your lesson then. Boy what say you?\nBoy. I say my Lord, that if I were a man,\nTheir mothers bed-chamber should not be safe,\nFor these bad bond-men to the yoake of Rome\nMar. I that's my boy, thy father hath full oft,\nFor his vngratefull country done the like\nBoy. And Vncle so will I, and if I liue\nTi. Come goe with me into mine Armorie,\nLucius Ile fit thee, and withall, my boy\nShall carry from me to the Empresse sonnes,\nPresents that I intend to send them both,\nCome, come, thou'lt do thy message, wilt thou not?\nBoy. I with my dagger in their bosomes Grandsire:\nTi. No boy not so, Ile teach thee another course,\nLauinia come, Marcus looke to my house,\nLucius and Ile goe braue it at the Court,\nI marry will we sir, and weele be waited on.\nExeunt.\nMar. O heauens! Can you heare a good man grone\nAnd not relent, or not compassion him?\nMarcus attend him in his extasie,\nThat hath more scars of sorrow in his heart,\nThen foe-mens markes vpon his batter'd shield,\nBut yet so iust, that he will not reuenge,\nReuenge the heauens for old Andronicus.\nExit\nEnter Aron, Chiron and Demetrius at one dore: and at another dore\nyoung\nLucius and another, with a bundle of weapons, and verses writ\nvpon them.\nChi. Demetrius heeres the sonne of Lucius,\nHe hath some message to deliuer vs\nAron. I some mad message from his mad Grandfather\nBoy. My Lords, with all the humblenesse I may,\nI greete your honours from Andronicus,\nAnd pray the Romane Gods confound you both\nDeme. Gramercie louely Lucius, what's the newes?\nFor villanie's markt with rape. May it please you,\nMy Grandsire well aduis'd hath sent by me,\nThe goodliest weapons of his Armorie,\nTo gratifie your honourable youth,\nThe hope of Rome, for so he bad me say:\nAnd so I do and with his gifts present\nYour Lordships, when euer you haue need,\nYou may be armed and appointed well,\nAnd so I leaue you both: like bloody villaines.\nExit\nDeme. What's heere? a scrole, & written round about?\nLet's see.\nInteger vit\u00e6 scelerisque purus, non egit maury iaculis nec arcus\nChi. O 'tis a verse in Horace, I know it well.\nI read it in the Grammer long agoe\nMoore. I iust, a verse in Horace: right, you haue it,\nNow what a thing it is to be an Asse?\nHeer's no sound iest, the old man hath found their guilt,\nAnd sends the weapons wrapt about with lines,\nThat wound (beyond their feeling) to the quick:\nBut were our witty Empresse well a foot,\nShe would applaud Andronicus conceit:\nBut let her rest, in her vnrest a while.\nAnd now young Lords, was't not a happy starre\nLed vs to Rome strangers, and more then so;\nCaptiues, to be aduanced to this height?\nIt did me good before the Pallace gate,\nTo braue the Tribune in his brothers hearing\nDeme. But me more good, to see so great a Lord\nBasely insinuate, and send vs gifts\nMoore. Had he not reason Lord Demetrius?\nDid you not vse his daughter very friendly?\nDeme. I would we had a thousand Romane Dames\nAt such a bay, by turne to serue our lust\nChi. A charitable wish, and full of loue\nMoore. Heere lack's but your mother for to say, Amen\nChi. And that would she for twenty thousand more\nDeme. Come, let vs go, and pray to all the Gods\nFor our beloued mother in her paines\nMoore. Pray to the deuils, the gods haue giuen vs ouer.\nFlourish.\nDem. Why do the Emperors trumpets flourish thus?\nChi. Belike for ioy the Emperour hath a sonne\nDeme. Soft, who comes heere?\nEnter Nurse with a blacke a Moore childe.\nNur. Good morrow Lords:\nO tell me, did you see Aaron the Moore?\nAron. Well, more or lesse, or nere a whit at all,\nHeere Aaron is, and what with Aaron now?\nNurse. Oh gentle Aaron, we are all vndone.\nNow helpe, or woe betide thee euermore\nAron. Why, what a catterwalling dost thou keepe?\nWhat dost thou wrap and fumble in thine armes?\nNurse. O that which I would hide from heauens eye,\nOur Empresse shame, and stately Romes disgrace,\nShe is deliuered Lords, she is deliuered\nAron. To whom?\nNurse. I meane she is brought a bed?\nAron. Wel God giue her good rest,\nWhat hath he sent her?\nNurse. A deuill\nAron. Why then she is the Deuils Dam: a ioyfull issue\nNurse. A ioylesse, dismall, blacke &, sorrowfull issue,\nHeere is the babe as loathsome as a toad,\nAmong'st the fairest breeders of our clime,\nThe Empresse sends it thee, thy stampe, thy seale,\nAnd bids thee christen it with thy daggers point\nAron. Out you whore, is black so base a hue?\nSweet blowse, you are a beautious blossome sure\nDeme. Villaine what hast thou done?\nAron. That which thou canst not vndoe\nChi. Thou hast vndone our mother\nDeme. And therein hellish dog, thou hast vndone,\nWoe to her chance, and damn'd her loathed choyce,\nAccur'st the off-spring of so foule a fiend\nChi. It shall not liue\nAron. It shall not die\nNurse. Aaron it must, the mother wils it so\nAron. What, must it Nurse? Then let no man but I\nDoe execution on my flesh and blood\nDeme. Ile broach the Tadpole on my Rapiers point:\nNurse giue it me, my sword shall soone dispatch it\nAron. Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels vp.\nStay murtherous villaines, will you kill your brother?\nNow by the burning Tapers of the skie,\nThat shone so brightly when this Boy was got,\nHe dies vpon my Semitars sharpe point,\nThat touches this my first borne sonne and heire.\nI tell you younglings, not Enceladus\nWith all his threatning band of Typhons broode,\nNor great Alcides, nor the God of warre,\nShall ceaze this prey out of his fathers hands:\nWhat, what, ye sanguine shallow harted Boyes,\nYe white-limb'd walls, ye Ale-house painted signes,\nCole-blacke is better then another hue,\nIn that it scornes to beare another hue:\nFor all the water in the Ocean,\nCan neuer turne the Swans blacke legs to white,\nAlthough she laue them hourely in the flood:\nTell the Empresse from me, I am of age\nTo keepe mine owne, excuse it how she can\nDeme. Wilt thou betray thy noble mistris thus?\nAron. My mistris is my mistris: this my selfe,\nThe vigour, and the picture of my youth:\nThis, before all the world do I preferre,\nThis mauger all the world will I keepe safe,\nOr some of you shall smoake for it in Rome\nDeme. By this our mother is for euer sham'd\nChi. Rome will despise her for this foule escape\nNur. The Emperour in his rage will doome her death\nChi. I blush to thinke vpon this ignominie\nAron. Why ther's the priuiledge your beauty beares:\nFie trecherous hue, that will betray with blushing\nThe close enacts and counsels of the hart:\nHeer's a young Lad fram'd of another leere,\nLooke how the blacke slaue smiles vpon the father;\nAs who should say, old Lad I am thine owne.\nHe is your brother Lords, sensibly fed\nOf that selfe blood that first gaue life to you,\nAnd from that wombe where you imprisoned were\nHe is infranchised and come to light:\nNay he is your brother by the surer side,\nAlthough my seale be stamped in his face\nNurse. Aaron what shall I say vnto the Empresse?\nDem. Aduise thee Aaron, what is to be done,\nAnd we will all subscribe to thy aduise:\nSaue thou the child, so we may all be safe\nAron. Then sit we downe and let vs all consult.\nMy sonne and I will haue the winde of you:\nKeepe there, now talke at pleasure of your safety\nDeme. How many women saw this childe of his?\nAron. Why so braue Lords, when we ioyne in league\nI am a Lambe: but if you braue the Moore,\nThe chafed Bore, the mountaine Lyonesse,\nThe Ocean swells not so as Aaron stormes:\nBut say againe, how many saw the childe?\nNurse. Cornelia, the midwife, and my selfe,\nAnd none else but the deliuered Empresse\nAron. The Empresse, the Midwife, and your selfe,\nTwo may keepe counsell, when the third's away:\nGoe to the Empresse, tell her this I said,\nHe kils her\nWeeke, weeke, so cries a Pigge prepared to th' spit\nDeme. What mean'st thou Aron?\nWherefore did'st thou this?\nAron. O Lord sir, 'tis a deed of pollicie?\nShall she liue to betray this guilt of our's:\nA long tongu'd babling Gossip? No Lords no:\nAnd now be it knowne to you my full intent.\nNot farre, one Muliteus my Country-man\nHis wife but yesternight was brought to bed,\nHis childe is like to her, faire as you are:\nGoe packe with them, and giue the mother gold,\nAnd tell them both the circumstance of all,\nAnd how by this their Childe shall be aduaunc'd,\nAnd be receiued for the Emperours heyre,\nAnd substituted in the place of mine,\nTo calme this tempest whirling in the Court,\nAnd let the Emperour dandle him for his owne,\nHarke ye Lords, ye see I haue giuen her physicke,\nAnd you must needs bestow her funerall,\nThe fields are neere, and you are gallant Groomes:\nThis done, see that you take no longer daies\nBut send the Midwife presently to me.\nThe Midwife and the Nurse well made away,\nThen let the Ladies tattle what they please\nChi. Aaron I see thou wilt not trust the ayre with secrets\nDeme. For this care of Tamora,\nHer selfe, and hers are highly bound to thee.\nExeunt\nAron. Now to the Gothes, as swift as Swallow flies,\nThere to dispose this treasure in mine armes,\nAnd secretly to greete the Empresse friends:\nCome on you thick-lipt-slaue, Ile beare you hence,\nFor it is you that puts vs to our shifts:\nIle make you feed on berries, and on rootes,\nAnd feed on curds and whay, and sucke the Goate,\nAnd cabbin in a Caue, and bring you vp\nTo be a warriour, and command a Campe.\nExit\nEnter Titus, old Marcus, young Lucius, and other gentlemen with\nbowes, and\nTitus beares the arrowes with Letters on the end of them.\nTit. Come Marcus, come, kinsmen this is the way.\nSir Boy let me see your Archerie,\nLooke yee draw home enough, and 'tis there straight:\nTerras Astrea reliquit, be you remembred Marcus.\nShe's gone, she's fled, sirs take you to your tooles,\nYou Cosens shall goe sound the Ocean:\nAnd cast your nets, haply you may find her in the Sea,\nYet ther's as little iustice as at Land:\nNo Publius and Sempronius, you must doe it,\n'Tis you must dig with Mattocke, and with Spade,\nAnd pierce the inmost Center of the earth:\nThen when you come to Plutoes Region,\nI pray you deliuer him this petition,\nTell him it is for iustice, and for aide,\nAnd that it comes from old Andronicus,\nShaken with sorrowes in vngratefull Rome.\nAh Rome! Well, well, I made thee miserable,\nWhat time I threw the peoples suffrages\nOn him that thus doth tyrannize ore me.\nGoe get you gone, and pray be carefull all,\nAnd leaue you not a man of warre vnsearcht,\nThis wicked Emperour may haue shipt her hence,\nAnd kinsmen then we may goe pipe for iustice\nMarc. O Publius is not this a heauie case\nTo see thy Noble Vnckle thus distract?\nPubl. Therefore my Lords it highly vs concernes,\nBy day and night t' attend him carefully:\nAnd feede his humour kindely as we may,\nTill time beget some carefull remedie\nMarc. Kinsmen, his sorrowes are past remedie.\nIoyne with the Gothes, and with reuengefull warre,\nTake wreake on Rome for this ingratitude,\nAnd vengeance on the Traytor Saturnine\nTit. Publius how now? how now my Maisters?\nWhat haue you met with her?\nPubl. No my good Lord, but Pluto sends you word,\nIf you will haue reuenge from hell you shall,\nMarrie for iustice she is so imploy'd,\nHe thinkes with Ioue in heauen, or some where else:\nSo that perforce you must needs stay a time\nTit. He doth me wrong to feed me with delayes,\nIle diue into the burning Lake below,\nAnd pull her out of Acaron by the heeles.\nMarcus we are but shrubs, no Cedars we,\nNo big-bon'd-men, fram'd of the Cyclops size,\nBut mettall Marcus steele to the very backe,\nYet wrung with wrongs more then our backe can beare:\nAnd sith there's no iustice in earth nor hell,\nWe will sollicite heauen, and moue the Gods\nTo send downe Iustice for to wreake our wrongs:\nCome to this geare, you are a good Archer Marcus.\nHe giues them the Arrowes.\nAd Iouem, that's for you: here ad Appollonem,\nAd Martem, that's for my selfe,\nHeere Boy to Pallas, heere to Mercury,\nTo Saturnine, to Caius, not to Saturnine,\nYou were as good to shoote against the winde.\nToo it Boy, Marcus loose when I bid:\nOf my word, I haue written to effect,\nTher's not a God left vnsollicited\nMarc. Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the Court,\nWe will afflict the Emperour in his pride\nTit. Now Maisters draw, Oh well said Lucius:\nGood Boy in Virgoes lap, giue it Pallas\nMarc. My Lord, I aime a Mile beyond the Moone,\nYour letter is with Iupiter by this\nTit. Ha, ha, Publius, Publius, what hast thou done?\nSee, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus hornes\nMar. This was the sport my Lord, when Publius shot,\nThe Bull being gal'd, gaue Aries such a knocke,\nThat downe fell both the Rams hornes in the Court,\nAnd who should finde them but the Empresse villaine:\nShe laught, and told the Moore he should not choose\nBut giue them to his Maister for a present\nTit. Why there it goes, God giue your Lordship ioy.\nEnter the Clowne with a basket and two Pigeons in it.\nTitus. Newes, newes, from heauen,\nMarcus the poast is come.\nSirrah, what tydings? haue you any letters?\nShall I haue Iustice, what sayes Iupiter?\nClowne. Ho the Iibbetmaker, he sayes that he hath taken\nthem downe againe, for the man must not be hang'd\ntill the next weeke\nTit. But what sayes Iupiter I aske thee?\nClowne. Alas sir I know not Iupiter:\nI neuer dranke with him in all my life\nTit. Why villaine art not thou the Carrier?\nClowne. I of my Pigions sir, nothing else\nTit. Why, did'st thou not come from heauen?\nClowne. From heauen? Alas sir, I neuer came there,\nGod forbid I should be so bold, to presse to heauen in my\nyoung dayes. Why I am going with my pigeons to the\nTribunall Plebs, to take vp a matter of brawle, betwixt\nmy Vncle, and one of the Emperialls men\nMar. Why sir, that is as fit as can be to serue for your\nOration, and let him deliuer the Pigions to the Emperour\nfrom you\nTit. Tell mee, can you deliuer an Oration to the Emperour\nwith a Grace?\nClowne. Nay truely sir, I could neuer say grace in all\nmy life\nTit. Sirrah come hither, make no more adoe,\nBut giue your Pigeons to the Emperour,\nBy me thou shalt haue Iustice at his hands.\nHold, hold, meane while her's money for thy charges.\nGiue me pen and inke.\nSirrah, can you with a Grace deliuer a Supplication?\nClowne. I sir\nTitus. Then here is a Supplication for you, and when\nyou come to him, at the first approach you must kneele,\nthen kisse his foote, then deliuer vp your Pigeons, and\nthen looke for your reward. Ile be at hand sir, see you do\nit brauely\nClowne. I warrant you sir, let me alone\nTit. Sirrha hast thou a knife? Come let me see it.\nHeere Marcus, fold it in the Oration,\nFor thou hast made it like an humble Suppliant:\nAnd when thou hast giuen it the Emperour,\nKnocke at my dore, and tell me what he sayes\nClowne. God be with you sir, I will.\nEnter.\nTit. Come Marcus let vs goe, Publius follow me.\nExeunt.\nEnter Emperour and Empresse, and her two sonnes, the Emperour\nbrings the\nArrowes in his hand that Titus shot at him.\nSatur. Why Lords,\nWhat wrongs are these? was euer seene\nAn Emperour in Rome thus ouerborne,\nTroubled, Confronted thus, and for the extent\nOf egall iustice, vs'd in such contempt?\nMy Lords, you know the mightfull Gods,\n(How euer these disturbers of our peace\nBuz in the peoples eares) there nought hath past,\nBut euen with law against the willfull Sonnes\nOf old Andronicus. And what and if\nHis sorrowes haue so ouerwhelm'd his wits,\nShall we be thus afflicted in his wreakes,\nHis fits, his frenzie, and his bitternesse?\nAnd now he writes to heauen for his redresse.\nSee, heeres to Ioue, and this to Mercury,\nThis to Apollo, this to the God of warre:\nSweet scrowles to flie about the streets of Rome:\nWhat's this but Libelling against the Senate,\nAnd blazoning our Iniustice euery where?\nA goodly humour, is it not my Lords?\nAs who would say, in Rome no Iustice were.\nBut if I liue, his fained extasies\nShall be no shelter to these outrages:\nBut he and his shall know, that Iustice liues\nIn Saturninus health; whom if he sleepe,\nHee'l so awake, as he in fury shall\nCut off the proud'st Conspirator that liues\nTamo. My gracious Lord, my louely Saturnine,\nLord of my life, Commander of my thoughts,\nCalme thee, and beare the faults of Titus age,\nTh' effects of sorrow for his valiant Sonnes,\nWhose losse hath pier'st him deepe, and scar'd his heart;\nAnd rather comfort his distressed plight,\nThen prosecute the meanest or the best\nFor these contempts. Why thus it shall become\nHigh witted Tamora to glose with all:\nAside.\nBut Titus, I haue touch'd thee to the quicke,\nThy life blood out: If Aaron now be wise,\nThen is all safe, the Anchor's in the Port.\nEnter Clowne.\nHow now good fellow, would'st thou speake with vs?\nClow. Yea forsooth, and your Mistership be Emperiall\nTam. Empresse I am, but yonder sits the Emperour\nClo. 'Tis he; God & Saint Stephen giue you good den;\nI haue brought you a Letter, & a couple of Pigions heere.\nHe reads the Letter.\nSatu. Goe take him away, and hang him presently\nClowne. How much money must I haue?\nTam. Come sirrah you must be hang'd\nClow. Hang'd? ber Lady, then I haue brought vp a neck\nto a faire end.\nEnter.\nSatu. Despightfull and intollerable wrongs,\nShall I endure this monstrous villany?\nI know from whence this same deuise proceedes:\nMay this be borne? As if his traytrous Sonnes,\nThat dy'd by law for murther of our Brother,\nHaue by my meanes beene butcher'd wrongfully?\nGoe dragge the villaine hither by the haire,\nNor Age, nor Honour, shall shape priuiledge:\nFor this proud mocke, Ile be thy slaughter man:\nSly franticke wretch, that holp'st to make me great,\nIn hope thy selfe should gouerne Rome and me.\nEnter Nuntius Emillius.\nSatur. What newes with thee Emillius?\nEmil. Arme my Lords, Rome neuer had more cause,\nThe Gothes haue gather'd head, and with a power\nOf high resolued men, bent to the spoyle\nThey hither march amaine, vnder conduct\nOf Lucius, Sonne to old Andronicus:\nWho threats in course of this reuenge to do\nAs much as euer Coriolanus did\nKing. Is warlike Lucius Generall of the Gothes?\nThese tydings nip me, and I hang the head\nAs flowers with frost, or grasse beat downe with stormes:\nI, now begins our sorrowes to approach,\n'Tis he the common people loue so much,\nMy selfe hath often heard them say,\n(When I haue walked like a priuate man)\nThat Lucius banishment was wrongfully,\nAnd they haue wisht that Lucius were their Emperour\nTam. Why should you feare? Is not our City strong?\nKing. I, but the Cittizens fauour Lucius,\nAnd will reuolt from me, to succour him\nTam. King, be thy thoughts Imperious like thy name.\nIs the Sunne dim'd, that Gnats do flie in it?\nThe Eagle suffers little Birds to sing,\nAnd is not carefull what they meane thereby,\nKnowing that with the shadow of his wings,\nHe can at pleasure stint their melodie.\nEuen so mayest thou, the giddy men of Rome,\nThen cheare thy spirit, for know thou Emperour,\nI will enchaunt the old Andronicus,\nWith words more sweet, and yet more dangerous\nThen baites to fish, or hony stalkes to sheepe,\nWhen as the one is wounded with the baite,\nThe other rotted with delicious foode\nKing. But he will not entreat his Sonne for vs\nTam. If Tamora entreat him, then he will,\nFor I can smooth and fill his aged eare,\nWith golden promises, that were his heart\nAlmost Impregnable, his old eares deafe,\nYet should both eare and heart, obey my tongue.\nGoe thou before to our Embassadour,\nSay, that the Emperour requests a parly\nOf warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting\nKing. Emillius do this message Honourably,\nAnd if he stand in Hostage for his safety,\nBid him demaund what pledge will please him best\nEmill. Your bidding shall I do effectually.\nEnter.\nTam. Now will I to that old Andronicus,\nAnd temper him with all the Art I haue,\nTo plucke proud Lucius from the warlike Gothes.\nAnd now sweet Emperour be blithe againe,\nAnd bury all thy feare in my deuises\nSatu. Then goe successantly and plead for him.\nEnter.\nActus Quintus.\nFlourish. Enter Lucius with an Army of Gothes, with Drum and\nSouldiers.\nLuci. Approued warriours, and my faithfull Friends,\nI haue receiued Letters from great Rome,\nWhich signifies what hate they beare their Emperour,\nAnd how desirous of our sight they are.\nTherefore great Lords, be as your Titles witnesse,\nImperious and impatient of your wrongs,\nAnd wherein Rome hath done you any scathe,\nLet him make treble satisfaction\nGoth. Braue slip, sprung from the Great Andronicus,\nWhose name was once our terrour, now our comfort,\nWhose high exploits, and honourable Deeds,\nIngratefull Rome requites with foule contempt:\nBehold in vs, weele follow where thou lead'st,\nLike stinging Bees in hottest Sommers day,\nLed by their Maister to the flowred fields,\nAnd be aueng'd on cursed Tamora:\nAnd as he saith, so say we all with him\nLuci. I humbly thanke him, and I thanke you all.\nBut who comes heere, led by a lusty Goth?\nEnter a Goth leading of Aaron with his child in his armes.\nGoth. Renowned Lucius, from our troups I straid,\nTo gaze vpon a ruinous Monasterie,\nAnd as I earnestly did fixe mine eye\nVpon the wasted building, suddainely\nI heard a childe cry vnderneath a wall:\nI made vnto the noyse, when soone I heard,\nThe crying babe control'd with this discourse:\nPeace Tawny slaue, halfe me, and halfe thy Dam,\nDid not thy Hue bewray whose brat thou art?\nHad nature lent thee, but thy Mothers looke,\nVillaine thou might'st haue bene an Emperour.\nBut where the Bull and Cow are both milk-white,\nThey neuer do beget a cole-blacke-Calfe:\nPeace, villaine peace, euen thus he rates the babe,\nFor I must beare thee to a trusty Goth,\nWho when he knowes thou art the Empresse babe,\nWill hold thee dearely for thy Mothers sake.\nWith this, my weapon drawne I rusht vpon him,\nSurpriz'd him suddainely, and brought him hither\nTo vse, as you thinke needefull of the man\nLuci. Oh worthy Goth, this is the incarnate deuill,\nThat rob'd Andronicus of his good hand:\nThis is the Pearle that pleas'd your Empresse eye,\nAnd heere's the Base Fruit of his burning lust.\nSay wall-ey'd slaue, whether would'st thou conuay\nThis growing Image of thy fiend-like face?\nWhy dost not speake? what deafe? Not a word?\nA halter Souldiers, hang him on this Tree,\nAnd by his side his Fruite of Bastardie\nAron. Touch not the Boy, he is of Royall blood\nLuci. Too like the Syre for euer being good.\nFirst hang the Child that he may see it sprall,\nA sight to vexe the Fathers soule withall\nAron. Get me a Ladder Lucius, saue the Childe,\nAnd beare it from me to the Empresse:\nIf thou do this, Ile shew thee wondrous things,\nThat highly may aduantage thee to heare;\nIf thou wilt not, befall what may befall,\nIle speake no more: but vengeance rot you all\nLuci. Say on, and if it please me which thou speak'st,\nThy child shall liue, and I will see it Nourisht\nAron. And if it please thee? why assure thee Lucius,\n'Twill vexe thy soule to heare what I shall speake:\nFor I must talke of Murthers, Rapes, and Massacres,\nActs of Blacke-night, abhominable Deeds,\nComplots of Mischiefe, Treason, Villanies\nRuthfull to heare, yet pittiously perform'd,\nAnd this shall all be buried by my death,\nVnlesse thou sweare to me my Childe shall liue\nLuci. Tell on thy minde,\nI say thy Childe shall liue\nAron. Sweare that he shall, and then I will begin\nLuci. Who should I sweare by,\nThou beleeuest no God,\nThat graunted, how can'st thou beleeue an oath?\nAron. What if I do not, as indeed I do not,\nYet for I know thou art Religious,\nAnd hast a thing within thee, called Conscience,\nWith twenty Popish trickes and Ceremonies,\nWhich I haue seene thee carefull to obserue:\nTherefore I vrge thy oath, for that I know\nAn Ideot holds his Bauble for a God,\nAnd keepes the oath which by that God he sweares,\nTo that Ile vrge him: therefore thou shalt vow\nBy that same God, what God so ere it be\nThat thou adorest, and hast in reuerence,\nTo saue my Boy, to nourish and bring him vp,\nOre else I will discouer nought to thee\nLuci. Euen by my God I sweare to thee I will\nAron. First know thou,\nI begot him on the Empresse\nLuci. Oh most Insatiate luxurious woman!\nAron. Tut Lucius, this was but a deed of Charitie,\nTo that which thou shalt heare of me anon,\n'Twas her two Sonnes that murdered Bassianus,\nThey cut thy Sisters tongue, and rauisht her,\nAnd cut her hands off, and trim'd her as thou saw'st\nLucius. Oh detestable villaine!\nCall'st thou that Trimming?\nAron. Why she was washt, and cut, and trim'd,\nAnd 'twas trim sport for them that had the doing of it\nLuci. Oh barbarous beastly villaines like thy selfe!\nAron. Indeede, I was their Tutor to instruct them\nThat Codding spirit had they from their Mother,\nAs sure a Card as euer wonne the Set:\nThat bloody minde I thinke they learn'd of me,\nAs true a Dog as euer fought at head.\nWell, let my Deeds be witnesse of my worth:\nI trayn'd thy Bretheren to that guilefull Hole,\nWhere the dead Corps of Bassianus lay:\nI wrote the Letter, that thy Father found,\nAnd hid the Gold within the Letter mention'd.\nConfederate with the Queene, and her two Sonnes,\nAnd what not done, that thou hast cause to rue,\nWherein I had no stroke of Mischeife in it.\nI play'd the Cheater for thy Fathers hand,\nAnd when I had it, drew my selfe apart,\nAnd almost broke my heart with extreame laughter.\nI pried me through the Creuice of a Wall,\nWhen for his hand, he had his two Sonnes heads,\nBeheld his teares, and laught so hartily,\nThat both mine eyes were rainie like to his:\nAnd when I told the Empresse of this sport,\nShe sounded almost at my pleasing tale,\nAnd for my tydings, gaue me twenty kisses\nGoth. What canst thou say all this, and neuer blush?\nAron. I, like a blacke Dogge, as the saying is\nLuci. Art thou not sorry for these hainous deedes?\nAron. I, that I had not done a thousand more:\nEuen now I curse the day, and yet I thinke\nFew come within few compasse of my curse,\nWherein I did not some Notorious ill,\nAs kill a man, or else deuise his death,\nRauish a Maid, or plot the way to do it,\nAccuse some Innocent, and forsweare my selfe,\nSet deadly Enmity betweene two Friends,\nMake poore mens Cattell breake their neckes,\nSet fire on Barnes and Haystackes in the night,\nAnd bid the Owners quench them with the teares:\nOft haue I dig'd vp dead men from their graues,\nAnd set them vpright at their deere Friends doore,\nEuen when their sorrowes almost was forgot,\nAnd on their skinnes, as on the Barke of Trees,\nHaue with my knife carued in Romaine Letters,\nLet not your sorrow die, though I am dead.\nTut, I haue done a thousand dreadfull things\nAs willingly, as one would kill a Fly,\nAnd nothing greeues me hartily indeede,\nBut that I cannot doe ten thousand more\nLuci. Bring downe the diuell, for he must not die\nSo sweet a death as hanging presently\nAron. If there be diuels, would I were a deuill,\nTo liue and burne in euerlasting fire,\nSo I might haue your company in hell,\nBut to torment you with my bitter tongue\nLuci. Sirs stop his mouth, & let him speake no more.\nEnter Emillius.\nGoth. My Lord, there is a Messenger from Rome\nDesires to be admitted to your presence\nLuc. Let him come neere.\nWelcome Emillius, what the newes from Rome?\nEmi. Lord Lucius, and you Princes of the Gothes,\nThe Romaine Emperour greetes you all by me,\nAnd for he vnderstands you are in Armes,\nHe craues a parly at your Fathers house\nWilling you to demand your Hostages,\nAnd they shall be immediately deliuered\nGoth. What saies our Generall?\nLuc. Emillius, let the Emperour giue his pledges\nVnto my Father, and my Vncle Marcus,\nFlourish.\nAnd we will come: march away.\nExeunt.\nEnter Tamora, and her two Sonnes disguised.\nTam. Thus in this strange and sad Habilliament,\nI will encounter with Andronicus,\nAnd say, I am Reuenge sent from below,\nTo ioyne with him and right his hainous wrongs:\nKnocke at his study where they say he keepes,\nTo ruminate strange plots of dire Reuenge,\nTell him Reuenge is come to ioyne with him,\nAnd worke confusion on his Enemies.\nThey knocke and Titus opens his study dore.\nTit. Who doth mollest my Contemplation?\nIs it your tricke to make me ope the dore,\nThat so my sad decrees may flie away,\nAnd all my studie be to no effect?\nYou are deceiu'd, for what I meane to do,\nSee heere in bloody lines I haue set downe:\nAnd what is written shall be executed\nTam. Titus, I am come to talke with thee,\nTit. No not a word: how can I grace my talke,\nWanting a hand to giue it action,\nThou hast the ods of me, therefore no more\nTam. If thou did'st know me,\nThou would'st talke with me\nTit. I am not mad, I know thee well enough,\nWitnesse this wretched stump,\nWitnesse these crimson lines,\nWitnesse these Trenches made by griefe and care,\nWitnesse the tyring day, and heauie night,\nWitnesse all sorrow, that I know thee well\nFor our proud Empresse, Mighty Tamora:\nIs not thy comming for my other hand?\nTamo. Know thou sad man, I am not Tamora,\nShe is thy Enemie, and I thy Friend,\nI am Reuenge sent from th' infernall Kingdome,\nTo ease the gnawing Vulture of the mind,\nBy working wreakefull vengeance on my Foes:\nCome downe and welcome me to this worlds light,\nConferre with me of Murder and of Death,\nTher's not a hollow Caue or lurking place,\nNo Vast obscurity, or Misty vale,\nWhere bloody Murther or detested Rape,\nCan couch for feare, but I will finde them out,\nAnd in their eares tell them my dreadfull name,\nReuenge, which makes the foule offenders quake\nTit. Art thou Reuenge? and art thou sent to me,\nTo be a torment to mine Enemies?\nTam. I am, therefore come downe and welcome me\nTit. Doe me some seruice ere I come to thee:\nLoe by thy side where Rape and Murder stands,\nNow giue some surance that thou art Reuenge,\nStab them, or teare them on thy Chariot wheeles,\nAnd then Ile come and be thy Waggoner,\nAnd whirle along with thee about the Globes.\nProuide thee two proper Palfries, as blacke as Iet,\nTo hale thy vengefull Waggon swift away,\nAnd finde out Murder in their guilty cares.\nAnd when thy Car is loaden with their heads,\nI will dismount, and by the Waggon wheele,\nTrot like a Seruile footeman all day long,\nEuen from Eptons rising in the East,\nVntill his very downefall in the Sea.\nAnd day by day Ile do this heauy taske,\nSo thou destroy Rapine and Murder there\nTam. These are my Ministers, and come with me\nTit. Are them thy Ministers, what are they call'd?\nTam. Rape and Murder, therefore called so,\nCause they take vengeance of such kind of men\nTit. Good Lord how like the Empresse Sons they are,\nAnd you the Empresse: But we worldly men,\nHaue miserable mad mistaking eyes:\nOh sweet Reuenge, now do I come to thee,\nAnd if one armes imbracement will content thee,\nI will imbrace thee in it by and by\nTam. This closing with him, fits his Lunacie,\nWhat ere I forge to feede his braine-sicke fits,\nDo you vphold, and maintaine in your speeches,\nFor now he firmely takes me for Reuenge,\nAnd being Credulous in this mad thought,\nIle make him send for Lucius his Sonne,\nAnd whil'st I at a Banquet hold him sure,\nIle find some cunning practise out of hand\nTo scatter and disperse the giddie Gothes,\nOr at the least make them his Enemies:\nSee heere he comes, and I must play my theame\nTit. Long haue I bene forlorne, and all for thee,\nWelcome dread Fury to my woefull house,\nRapine and Murther, you are welcome too,\nHow like the Empresse and her Sonnes you are.\nWell are you fitted, had you but a Moore,\nCould not all hell afford you such a deuill?\nFor well I wote the Empresse neuer wags;\nBut in her company there is a Moore,\nAnd would you represent our Queene aright\nIt were conuenient you had such a deuill:\nBut welcome as you are, what shall we doe?\nTam. What would'st thou haue vs doe Andronicus?\nDem. Shew me a Murtherer, Ile deale with him\nChi. Shew me a Villaine that hath done a Rape,\nAnd I am sent to be reueng'd on him\nTam. Shew me a thousand that haue done thee wrong,\nAnd Ile be reuenged on them all\nTit. Looke round about the wicked streets of Rome,\nAnd when thou find'st a man that's like thy selfe,\nGood Murder stab him, hee's a Murtherer.\nGoe thou with him, and when it is thy hap\nTo finde another that is like to thee,\nGood Rapine stab him, he is a Rauisher.\nGo thou with them, and in the Emperours Court,\nThere is a Queene attended by a Moore,\nWell maist thou know her by thy owne proportion,\nFor vp and downe she doth resemble thee.\nI pray thee doe on them some violent death,\nThey haue bene violent to me and mine\nTam. Well hast thou lesson'd vs, this shall we do.\nBut would it please thee good Andronicus,\nTo send for Lucius thy thrice Valiant Sonne,\nWho leades towards Rome a Band of Warlike Gothes,\nAnd bid him come and Banquet at thy house.\nWhen he is heere, euen at thy Solemne Feast,\nI will bring in the Empresse and her Sonnes,\nThe Emperour himselfe, and all thy Foes,\nAnd at thy mercy shall they stoop, and kneele,\nAnd on them shalt thou ease, thy angry heart:\nWhat saies Andronicus to this deuise?\nEnter Marcus.\nTit. Marcus my Brother, 'tis sad Titus calls,\nGo gentle Marcus to thy Nephew Lucius,\nThou shalt enquire him out among the Gothes,\nBid him repaire to me, and bring with him\nSome of the chiefest Princes of the Gothes,\nBid him encampe his Souldiers where they are,\nTell him the Emperour, and the Empresse too,\nFeasts at my house, and he shall Feast with them,\nThis do thou for my loue, and so let him,\nAs he regards his aged Fathers life\nMar. This will I do, and soone returne againe\nTam. Now will I hence about thy businesse,\nAnd take my Ministers along with me\nTit. Nay, nay, let Rape and Murder stay with me,\nOr els Ile call my Brother backe againe,\nAnd cleaue to no reuenge but Lucius\nTam. What say you Boyes, will you bide with him,\nWhiles I goe tell my Lord the Emperour,\nHow I haue gouern'd our determined iest?\nYeeld to his Humour, smooth and speake him faire,\nAnd tarry with him till I turne againe\nTit. I know them all, though they suppose me mad,\nAnd will ore-reach them in their owne deuises,\nA payre of cursed hell-hounds and their Dam\nDem. Madam depart at pleasure, leaue vs heere\nTam. Farewell Andronicus, reuenge now goes\nTo lay a complot to betray thy Foes\nTit. I know thou doo'st, and sweet reuenge farewell\nChi. Tell vs old man, how shall we be imploy'd?\nTit. Tut, I haue worke enough for you to doe,\nPublius come hither, Caius, and Valentine\nPub. What is your will?\nTit. Know you these two?\nPub. The Empresse Sonnes\nI take them, Chiron, Demetrius\nTitus. Fie Publius, fie, thou art too much deceau'd,\nThe one is Murder, Rape is the others name,\nAnd therefore bind them gentle Publius,\nCaius, and Valentine, lay hands on them,\nOft haue you heard me wish for such an houre,\nAnd now I find it, therefore binde them sure,\nChi. Villaines forbeare, we are the Empresse Sonnes\nPub. And therefore do we, what we are commanded.\nStop close their mouthes, let them not speake a word,\nIs he sure bound, looke that you binde them fast.\nExeunt.\nEnter Titus Andronicus with a knife, and Lauinia with a Bason.\nTit. Come, come Lauinia, looke, thy Foes are bound,\nSirs stop their mouthes, let them not speake to me,\nBut let them heare what fearefull words I vtter.\nOh Villaines, Chiron, and Demetrius,\nHere stands the spring whom you haue stain'd with mud,\nThis goodly Sommer with your Winter mixt,\nYou kil'd her husband, and for that vil'd fault,\nTwo of her Brothers were condemn'd to death,\nMy hand cut off, and made a merry iest,\nBoth her sweet Hands, her Tongue, and that more deere\nThen Hands or tongue, her spotlesse Chastity,\nInhumaine Traytors, you constrain'd and for'st.\nWhat would you say, if I should let you speake?\nVillaines for shame you could not beg for grace.\nHarke Wretches, how I meane to martyr you,\nThis one Hand yet is left, to cut your throats,\nWhil'st that Lauinia tweene her stumps doth hold:\nThe Bason that receiues your guilty blood.\nYou know your Mother meanes to feast with me,\nAnd calls herselfe Reuenge, and thinkes me mad.\nHarke Villaines, I will grin'd your bones to dust,\nAnd with your blood and it, Ile make a Paste,\nAnd of the Paste a Coffen I will reare,\nAnd make two Pasties of your shamefull Heads,\nAnd bid that strumpet your vnhallowed Dam,\nLike to the earth swallow her increase.\nThis is the Feast, that I haue bid her to,\nAnd this the Banquet she shall surfet on,\nFor worse then Philomel you vsd my Daughter,\nAnd worse then Progne, I will be reueng'd,\nAnd now prepare your throats: Lauinia come.\nReceiue the blood, and when that they are dead,\nLet me goe grin'd their Bones to powder small,\nAnd with this hatefull Liquor temper it,\nAnd in that Paste let their vil'd Heads be bakte,\nCome, come, be euery one officious,\nTo make this Banket, which I wish might proue,\nMore sterne and bloody then the Centaures Feast.\nHe cuts their throats.\nSo now bring them in, for Ile play the Cooke,\nAnd see them ready, gainst their Mother comes.\nExeunt.\nEnter Lucius, Marcus, and the Gothes.\nLuc. Vnckle Marcus, since 'tis my Fathers minde\nThat I repair to Rome, I am content\nGoth. And ours with thine befall, what Fortune will\nLuc. Good Vnckle take you in this barbarous Moore,\nThis Rauenous Tiger, this accursed deuill,\nLet him receiue no sustenance, fetter him,\nTill he be brought vnto the Emperours face,\nFor testimony of her foule proceedings.\nAnd see the Ambush of our Friends be strong,\nIf ere the Emperour meanes no good to vs\nAron. Some deuill whisper curses in my eare,\nAnd prompt me that my tongue may vtter forth,\nThe Venemous Mallice of my swelling heart\nLuc. Away Inhumaine Dogge, Vnhallowed Slaue,\nSirs, helpe our Vnckle, to conuey him in,\nFlourish.\nThe Trumpets shew the Emperour is at hand.\nSound Trumpets. Enter Emperour and Empresse, with Tribunes\nand others.\nSat. What, hath the Firemament more Suns then one?\nLuc. What bootes it thee to call thy selfe a Sunne?\nMar. Romes Emperour & Nephewe breake the parle\nThese quarrels must be quietly debated,\nThe Feast is ready which the carefull Titus,\nHath ordained to an Honourable end,\nFor Peace, for Loue, for League, and good to Rome:\nPlease you therfore draw nie and take your places\nSatur. Marcus we will.\nHoboyes.\nA Table brought in. Enter Titus like a Cooke, placing the meat on\nthe\nTable, and Lauinia with a vale ouer her face.\nTitus. Welcome my gracious Lord,\nWelcome Dread Queene,\nWelcome ye Warlike Gothes, welcome Lucius,\nAnd welcome all: although the cheere be poore,\n'Twill fill your stomacks, please you eat of it\nSat. Why art thou thus attir'd Andronicus?\nTit. Because I would be sure to haue all well,\nTo entertaine your Highnesse, and your Empresse\nTam. We are beholding to you good Andronicus?\nTit. And if your Highnesse knew my heart, you were:\nMy Lord the Emperour resolue me this,\nWas it well done of rash Virginius,\nTo slay his daughter with his owne right hand.\nBecause she was enfor'st, stain'd, and deflowr'd?\nSatur. It was Andronicus\nTit. Your reason, Mighty Lord?\nSat. Because the Girle, should not suruiue her shame,\nAnd by her presence still renew his sorrowes\nTit. A reason mighty, strong, and effectuall,\nA patterne, president, and liuely warrant,\nFor me (most wretched) to performe the like:\nDie, die, Lauinia, and thy shame with thee,\nAnd with thy shame, thy Fathers sorrow die.\nHe kils her.\nSat. What hast done, vnnaturall and vnkinde?\nTit. Kil'd her for whom my teares haue made me blind.\nI am as wofull as Virginius was,\nAnd haue a thousand times more cause then he\nSat. What was she rauisht? tell who did the deed,\nTit. Wilt please you eat,\nWilt please your Highnesse feed?\nTam. Why hast thou slaine thine onely Daughter?\nTitus. Not I, 'twas Chiron and Demetrius,\nThey rauisht her, and cut away her tongue,\nAnd they, 'twas they, that did her all this wrong\nSatu. Go fetch them hither to vs presently\nTit. Why there they are both, baked in that Pie,\nWhereof their Mother daintily hath fed,\nEating the flesh that she herselfe hath bred.\n'Tis true, 'tis true, witnesse my kniues sharpe point.\nHe stabs the Empresse.\nSatu. Die franticke wretch, for this accursed deed\nLuc. Can the Sonnes eye, behold his Father bleed?\nThere's meede for meede, death for a deadly deed\nMar. You sad fac'd men, people and Sonnes of Rome,\nBy vprores seuer'd like a flight of Fowle,\nScattred by windes and high tempestuous gusts:\nOh let me teach you how, to knit againe\nThis scattred Corne, into one mutuall sheafe,\nThese broken limbs againe into one body\nGoth. Let Rome herselfe be bane vnto herselfe,\nAnd shee whom mightie kingdomes cursie too,\nLike a forlorne and desperate castaway,\nDoe shamefull execution on her selfe.\nBut if my frostie signes and chaps of age,\nGraue witnesses of true experience,\nCannot induce you to attend my words,\nSpeake Romes deere friend, as er'st our Auncestor,\nWhen with his solemne tongue he did discourse\nTo loue-sicke Didoes sad attending eare,\nThe story of that balefull burning night,\nWhen subtil Greekes surpriz'd King Priams Troy:\nTell vs what Sinon hath bewicht our eares,\nOr who hath brought the fatall engine in,\nThat giues our Troy, our Rome the ciuill wound.\nMy heart is not compact of flint nor steele,\nNor can I vtter all our bitter griefe,\nBut floods of teares will drowne my Oratorie,\nAnd breake my very vttrance, euen in the time\nWhen it should moue you to attend me most,\nLending your kind hand Commiseration.\nHeere is a Captaine, let him tell the tale,\nYour hearts will throb and weepe to heare him speake\nLuc. This Noble Auditory, be it knowne to you,\nThat cursed Chiron and Demetrius\nWere they that murdred our Emperours Brother,\nAnd they it were that rauished our Sister,\nFor their fell faults our Brothers were beheaded,\nOur Fathers teares despis'd, and basely cousen'd,\nOf that true hand that fought Romes quarrell out,\nAnd sent her enemies vnto the graue.\nLastly, my selfe vnkindly banished,\nThe gates shut on me, and turn'd weeping out,\nTo beg reliefe among Romes Enemies,\nWho drown'd their enmity in my true teares,\nAnd op'd their armes to imbrace me as a Friend:\nAnd I am turned forth, be it knowne to you,\nThat haue preseru'd her welfare in my blood,\nAnd from her bosome tooke the Enemies point,\nSheathing the steele in my aduentrous body.\nAlas you know, I am no Vaunter I,\nMy scars can witnesse, dumbe although they are,\nThat my report is iust and full of truth:\nBut soft, me thinkes I do digresse too much,\nCyting my worthlesse praise: Oh pardon me,\nFor when no Friends are by, men praise themselues,\nMarc. Now is my turne to speake: Behold this Child,\nOf this was Tamora deliuered,\nThe issue of an Irreligious Moore,\nChiefe Architect and plotter of these woes,\nThe Villaine is aliue in Titus house,\nAnd as he is, to witnesse this is true.\nNow iudge what course had Titus to reuenge\nThese wrongs, vnspeakeable past patience,\nOr more then any liuing man could beare.\nNow you haue heard the truth, what say you Romaines?\nHaue we done ought amisse? shew vs wherein,\nAnd from the place where you behold vs now,\nThe poore remainder of Andronici,\nWill hand in hand all headlong cast vs downe,\nAnd on the ragged stones beat forth our braines,\nAnd make a mutuall closure of our house:\nSpeake Romaines speake, and if you say we shall,\nLoe hand in hand, Lucius and I will fall\nEmilli. Come come, thou reuerent man of Rome,\nAnd bring our Emperour gently in thy hand,\nLucius our Emperour: for well I know,\nThe common voyce do cry it shall be so\nMar. Lucius, all haile Romes Royall Emperour,\nGoe, goe into old Titus sorrowfull house,\nAnd hither hale that misbelieuing Moore,\nTo be adiudg'd some direfull slaughtering death,\nAs punishment for his most wicked life.\nLucius all haile to Romes gracious Gouernour\nLuc. Thankes gentle Romanes, may I gouerne so,\nTo heale Romes harmes, and wipe away her woe.\nBut gentle people, giue me ayme a-while,\nFor Nature puts me to a heauy taske:\nStand all aloofe, but Vnckle draw you neere,\nTo shed obsequious teares vpon this Trunke:\nOh take this warme kisse on thy pale cold lips,\nThese sorrowfull drops vpon thy bloud-slaine face,\nThe last true Duties of thy Noble Sonne\nMar. Teare for teare, and louing kisse for kisse,\nThy Brother Marcus tenders on thy Lips:\nO were the summe of these that I should pay\nCountlesse, and infinit, yet would I pay them\nLuc. Come hither Boy, come, come, and learne of vs\nTo melt in showres: thy Grandsire lou'd thee well:\nMany a time he danc'd thee on his knee:\nSung thee asleepe, his Louing Brest, thy Pillow:\nMany a matter hath he told to thee,\nMeete, and agreeing with thine Infancie:\nIn that respect then, like a louing Childe,\nShed yet some small drops from thy tender Spring,\nBecause kinde Nature doth require it so:\nFriends, should associate Friends, in Greefe and Wo.\nBid him farwell, commit him to the Graue,\nDo him that kindnesse, and take leaue of him\nBoy. O Grandsire, Grandsire: euen with all my heart\nWould I were Dead, so you did Liue againe.\nO Lord, I cannot speake to him for weeping,\nMy teares will choake me, if I ope my mouth\nRomans. You sad Andronici, haue done with woes,\nGiue sentence on this execrable Wretch,\nThat hath beene breeder of these dire euents\nLuc. Set him brest deepe in earth, and famish him:\nThere let him stand, and raue, and cry for foode:\nIf any one releeues, or pitties him,\nFor the offence, he dyes. This is our doome:\nSome stay, to see him fast'ned in the earth\nAron. O why should wrath be mute, & Fury dumbe?\nI am no Baby I, that with base Prayers\nI should repent the Euils I haue done.\nTen thousand worse, then euer yet I did,\nWould I performe if I might haue my will:\nIf one good Deed in all my life I did,\nI do repent it from my very Soule\nLucius. Some louing Friends conuey the Emp[erour]. hence,\nAnd giue him buriall in his Fathers graue.\nMy Father, and Lauinia, shall forthwith\nBe closed in our Housholds Monument:\nAs for that heynous Tyger Tamora,\nNo Funerall Rite, nor man in mournfull Weeds:\nNo mournfull Bell shall ring her Buriall:\nBut throw her foorth to Beasts and Birds of prey:\nHer life was Beast-like, and deuoid of pitty,\nAnd being so, shall haue like want of pitty.\nSee Iustice done on Aaron that damn'd Moore,\nFrom whom, our heauy happes had their beginning:\nThen afterwards, to Order well the State,\nThat like Euents, may ne're it Ruinate.\nExeunt. omnes.\nFINIS. The Lamentable Tragedy of Titus Andronicus.","title":"The Tragedie of Titus Andronicus","type":"page"}