SCENE IÍ.

A Room in Titus's Houfe. A banquet set out.

Enter TITUS, MARCUS, LAVINÍA, and young LUCIUS, a boy.

Tit. So, fo; now fit: and look, you eat no more
Than will preferve just so much strength in us
As will revenge these bitter woes of ours.
Marcus, unknit that forrow-wreathen knot;
Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands,
And cannot paffionate our tenfold grief

With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine
Is left to tyrannize upon my breast;

And when my heart, all mad with misery,
Beats in this hollow prifon of my flesh,

'Then thus I thump it down.

Thou map of woe, that thus doft talk in figns!

[TO LAVINIA,
When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating,
Thou canst not strike it thus to make it ftill.
Wound it with fighing, girl, kill it with groans;
Or get fome little knife between thy teeth,
And just against thy heart make thou a hole;
That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall,

May run into that fink, and soaking in,
Drown the lamenting fool in fea-falt tears.

Mar. Fye, brother, fye! teach her not thus to lay

Such violent hands upon her tender life.

Tit. How now! has forrow made thee dote already?

Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I.

What violent hands can fhe lay on her life?

Ah,

Ah, wherefore doft thou urge the name of hands;—
To bid Æneas tell the tale twice o'er,

How Troy was burnt, and he made miserable?
O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands;
Left we remember ftill, that we have none.-
Fye, fye, how frantickly 1 fquare my talk!
As if we should forget we had no hands,

If Marcus did not name the word of hands!-
Come, let's fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this :-
Here is no drink! Hark, Marcus, what fhe fays;-
I can interpret all her martyr'd figns ;—

She fays, the drinks no other drink but tears,
Brew'd with her forrows, mesh'd upon her cheeks :-
Speechlefs complainer, I will learn thy thought;
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect,

As begging hermits in their holy prayers:

Thou shalt not figh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven,
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a fign,
But I, of thefe, will wreft an alphabet,

And, by ftill practice, learn to know thy meaning.
Boy. Good grandfire, leave these bitter deep laments :
Make my aunt merry with fome pleasing tale.

Mar. Alas, the tender boy, in paffion mov'd,

Doth weep to see his grandfire's heaviness.

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

[MARCUS ftrikes the dish with a knife.
What doft thou ftrike at, Marcus, with thy knife?
Mar. At that that I have kill'd, my lord; a fly.
Tit. Out on thee, inurderer! thou kill'ft my heart;
Mine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny:
A deed of death, done on the innocent,

Becomes not Titus' brother; Get thee gone;
I fee, thou art not for my company.
E

Mar.

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

Tit. But how, if that fly had a father and mother? How would he hang his slender gilded wings,

And buz lamenting doings in the air?

Poor harmless fly!

That with his pretty buzzing melody,

Came here to make us merry; and thou haft kill'd him.
Mar. Pardon me, fir; 'twas a black ill-favour'd fly,
Like to the emprefs' Moor; therefore I kill'd him.
Tit. 0, 0, 0,

Then pardon me for reprehending thee,
For thou haft done a charitable deed.
Give me thy knife, I will insult on him;
Flattering myself, as if it were the Moor,
Come hither purposely to poifon me.—
There's for thyself, and that's for Tamora.—
Ah, firrah!-

Yet I do think we are not brought fo low,
But that, between us, we can kill a fly,

That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.

Mar. Alas, poor man! grief has fo wrought on him, He takes false fhadows for true fubftances.

Tit. Come, take away.-Lavinia, go with me:
I'll to thy closet; and go read with thee
Sad stories, chanced in the times of old.—
Come, boy, and go with me; thy fight is young,
And thou shalt read, when mine begins to dazzle.

[Exeunt.

ACT

Enter TITUS and MARCUS. Then enter young LUCIUS, LAVINIA running after him.

Boy. Help, grandfire, help! my aunt Lavinia Follows me every where, I know not why ;Good uncle Marcus, fee how fwift fhe comes! Alas, fweet aunt, I know not what you mean.

Mar. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine aunt.
Tit. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm.
Boy. Ay, when my father was in Rome, fhe did.
Mar. What means my niece Lavinia by these signs?
Tit. Fear her not, Lucius :-Somewhat doth she mean :
See, Lucius, fee, how much the makes of thee:
Somewhither would fhe have thee go with her.
Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care
Read to her fons, than fhe hath read to thee,
Sweet poetry, and Tully's Orator.

Canft thou not guess wherefore the plies thee thus ?
Boy. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,
Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her :
For I have heard my grandfire say full oft,
Extremity of griefs would make men mad;
And I have read, that Hecuba of Troy
Ran mad through forrow: That made me to fear ;
Although, my lord, I know, my noble aunt

Loves me as dear as e'er my mother did,

And would not, but in fury, fright my youth:
Which made me down to throw my books, and fly;

Caufelefs, perhaps : But pardon me, sweet aunt :
And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,

I will most willingly attend your ladyship.
Mar. Lucius, I will.

[LAVINIA turns over the books which LUCIUS bas let fall.

Tit. How now, Lavinia ?-Marcus, what means this? Some book there is that the defires to fee:

Which is it, girl, of thefe ?-Open them, boy.-
But thou art deeper read, and better skill'd;
Come, and take choice of all my library,
And so beguile thy forrow, till the heavens
Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed.-
Why lifts the up her arms in fequence thus ?

Mar. I think, fhe means, that there was more than

one

Confederate in the fact ;-Ay, more there was :—
Or else to heaven fhe heaves them for revenge.
Tit. Lucius, what book is that fhe toffeth fo?
Boy Grandfire, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphofis;
My mother gave’t me.

Mar.

For love of her that's gone,

Perhaps the cull'd it from among the rest.

Tit. Soft! fee, how busily she turns the leaves !
Help her

What would she find?-Lavinia, shall I read?
This is the tragick tale of Philomel,

And treats of Tereus' treason, and his rape;

And rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy.

Mar. See, brother, fee; note, how the quotes the

leaves.

Tit. Lavinia, wert thou thus furpriz'd, sweet girl, Ravish'd, and wrong'd, as Philomela was,

Forc'd in the ruthlefs, vaft, and gloomy woods ?—

See,