Enter Senators, Tribunes, and Officers of Justice, with MARTIUS and QUINTUS, bound, paffing on to the place of execution; TITUS going before, pleading.
Tit. Hear me, grave fathers! noble tribunes, stay!
For pity of mine age, whofe youth was fpent
In dangerous wars, whilst you fecurely slept ;
For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel thed;
For all the frosty nights that I have watch'd;
And for these bitter tears, which now you fee
Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks;
Be pitiful to my condemned fons,
Whofe fouls are not corrupted as 'tis thought!
For two and twenty fons I never wept,
Because they died in honour's lofty bed.
For thefe, thefe, tribunes, in the duft I write
[Throwing himself on the ground.
My heart's deep languor, and my foul's fad tears.
Let my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite;
My fons' fweet blood will make it shame and blush.
[Exeunt Senators, Tribunes, &c. with the prisoners.
O earth! I will befriend thee more with rain,
That fhall diftil from thefe two ancient urns,
Than youthful April fhall with all his fhowers:
In fummer's drought, I'll drop upon thee ftill;
In winter, with warm tears I'll melt the fnow,
And keep eternal spring-time on thy face,
So thou refuse to drink my dear fons' blood.
Enter LUCIUS, with his fword drawn.
O, reverend tribunes! gentle aged men!
Unbind my fons, reverse the doom of death;
And let me fay, that never wept before,
My tears are now prevailing orators.
Luc. O, noble father, you lament in vain;
The tribunes hear you not, no man is by,
And you recount your forrows to a stone.
Tit. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead :
Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you.
Luc. My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak.
Tit. Why, 'tis no matter, man: if they did hear,
They would not mark me; or, if they did mark,
All bootless to them, they'd not pity me.
Therefore I tell my forrows to the stones;
Who, though they cannot answer my diftrefs,
Yet in fome fort they're better than the tribunes,
For that they will not intercept my tale :
When I do weep, they humbly at my feet
Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me;
And, were they but attired in grave weeds,
Rome could afford no tribune like to thefe.
A ftone is foft as wax, tribunes more hard than stones:
A ftone is filent, and offendeth not;
And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death.
But wherefore ftand'st thou with thy weapon drawn?
Luc. To rescue my two brothers from their death:
For which attempt, the judges have pronounc'd
My everlasting doom of banishment.
Tit. O happy man! they have befriended thee.
Why, foolish Lucius, doft thou not perceive,
That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers?
Tigers must prey; and Rome affords no prey,
But me and mine: How happy art thou then,
From these devourers to be banished?
But who comes with our brother Marcus here?
Enter MARCUS and LAVINIA.
Mar. Titus, prepare thy noble eyes to weep; Or, if not fo, thy noble heart to break ;
I bring confuming forrow to thine age.
Tit. Will it confume me? let me fee it then.
Mar. This was thy daughter.
Tit. Why, Marcus, fo fhe is.
Luc. Ah me! this object kills me!
Tit. Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her :→ Speak, my Lavinia, what accurfed hand
Hath made thee handlefs in thy father's fight?
What fool hath added water to the fea?
Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy?
My grief was at the height, before thou cam'st,
And now, like Nilus, it difdaineth bounds.-
Give me a fword, I'll chop off my hands too;
For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain ;
And they have nurs'd this woe, in feeding life;
In bootlefs prayer have they been held up,
And they have ferv'd me to effectless use:
Now, all the fervice I require of them
Is, that the one will help to cut the other.-
'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou haft no hands;
For hands, to do Rome fervice, are but vain.
Luc. Speak, gentle fifter, who hath martyr'd thee?
Mar. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts, .
That blab'd them with such pleafing eloquence,
Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage;
Where, like a fweet melodious bird, it fung
Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear!
Luc. O, fay thou for her, who hath done this deed?
Mar. O, thus I found her, straying in the park,
Seeking to hide herself; as doth the deer,
That hath receiv'd fome unrecuring wound.
Tit. It was my deer; and he, that wounded her,
Hath hurt me more, than had he kill'd me dead :
For now I ftand as one upon a rock,
Environ'd with a wilderness of fea;
Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave,
Expecting ever when some envious furge
Will in his brinith bowels fwallow him.
This way to death my wretched fons are gone;
Here ftands my other fon, a banish'd man;
And here my brother, weeping at my woes;
But that, which gives my foul the greatest spurn,
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my foul.-
Had I but feen thy picture in this plight,
It would have madded me; What fhall I do
Now I behold thy lively body fo?
Thou haft no hands, to wipe away thy tears;
Nor tongue, to tell me who hath martyr'd thee:
Thy husband he is dead; and, for his death,
Thy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this :-
Look, Marcus! ah, fon Lucius, look on her!
When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears
Stood on her cheeks; as doth the honey dew
Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd.
Mar. Perchance, fhe weeps because they kill'd her hufband:
Perchance, becaufe fhe knows them innocent.
Tit. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful,
Because the law hath ta'en revenge on them.-
No, no, they would not do fo foul a deed;
Witness the forrow that their fifter makes.-
Gentle Lavinia, let me kifs thy lips;
Or make fome fign how I may do thee ease:
Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius,
And thou, and I, fit round about fome fountain;
Looking all downwards, to behold our cheeks
How they are ftain'd; like meadows, yet not dry
With miry flime left on them by a flood?
And in the fountain shall we gaze so long,
Till the fresh tafte be taken from that clearness,
And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears?
Or fhall we cut away our hands, like thine?
Or fhall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows
Pafs the remainder of our hateful days?
What fhall we do? let us, that have our tongues,
Plot fome device of further mifery,
To make us wonder'd at in time to come.
Luc. Sweet father, ceafe your tears; for, at your grief, See, how my wretched fifter fobs and weeps.
Mar. Patience, dear niece:-good Titus, dry thine eyes.
Tit. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! brother, well I wot,
Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,
For thou, poor man, haft drown'd it with thine own.
Luc. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.
Tit. Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs:
Had the a tongue to speak, now would the fay
That to her brother which I faid to thee;
His napkin, with his true tears all bewet,
Can do no fervice on her forrowful cheeks.
O, what a sympathy of woe is this!
As far from help as limbo is from bliss.
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