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 fuch pleafing eloquence, Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage, Where like a sweet melodious bird it fung Sweet various notes, inchanting every ear! Luc. Oh, fay thou for her, who hath done this deed? Mar. O, thus I found her ftraying in the park, Seeking to hide herself, as doth the deer, That hath receiv'd fome unrecuring wound. 8 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 sea, Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave; It would have madded me. What fhall I do, Thou haft no hands to wipe away thy tears, 8 It was my deer :] The play upon deer and dear has been used by Waller, who calls a lady's girdle, The pale that held my lovely deer. JOHNSON. Mar. Perchance, the weeps because they kill'd her husband. Perchance, because she knows them innocent. Tit. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful, Or make fome figns how I may do thee ease. What fhall we do? let us that have our tongues, To make us wondred 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, For thou, poor man, haft drown'd it with thine own. Can do no fervice on her forrowful cheeks. Oh, what a sympathy of woe is this! Enter Aaron. Aar. Titus Andronicus, my lord the emperor That gives sweet tidings of the fun's uprife? Luc. Stay, father, for that noble hand of thine, And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-ax, • Writing destruction on the enemies' cafque? Oh, 9 Writing deftruction on the enemies' caftle ?] Thus all the editions. But Mr. Theobald, after ridiculing the fagacity of the former editors at the expence of a great deal of aukward mirth, corrects it to cafque; and this, he fays, he'll ftand by: And the Oxford editor, taking his fecurity, will ftand by it too. But what a flippery ground is critical confidence! Nothing could bid fairer for a right conjecture; yet 'tis all imaginary. A clofe helmet, which covered the whole head, was called a cafle, and, I fuppofe, for that very reafon. Don Quixote's barber, at leaft as good a critic as thefe editors, fays, (in Shelton's tranflation, 1612,) I know what is a helmet, and what a morrion, and what a clofe caftle, and other thing's touching warfare, lib. iv. cap. 18. And the original, celada Oh, none of both but are of high defert, Aar. Nay, come, agree, whofe hand shall go along, Luc. By heaven, it fhall not go. Tit. Sirs, ftrive no more, fuch wither'd herbs as these Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine. Luc. Sweet father, if I fhall be thought thy fon, Let me redeem my brothers both from death. Mar. And for our father's fake and mother's care, Now let me fhew a brother's love to thee. Tit. Agree between you, I will spare my hand. Mar. But I will ufe the ax. [Exeunt Lucius and Marcus. Tit. Come hither, Aaron, I'll deceive them both, Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine. celeda de encaxe, has fomething of the fame fignification. Shakespeare uses the word again in Troilus and Cresfida; -and Diomede Stand faft, and wear a caftle on thy head. WARE. Dr. Warburton's proof (fays the author of the Revifal) rests wholly on two mistakes, one of a printer, the other of his own. In Shelton's Don Quixote the word clofe castle is an error of the press for a clofe cafque, which is the exact interpretation of the Spanish original, celada de encaxe. His other proof is taken from this paffage in Troilus and Creffida, and Diomede Stand faft, and wear a caftle on thy head. wherein Troilus doth not advife Diomede to wear a helmet on his head, for that would be poor indeed, as he always wore one in battle; but to guard his head with the most impenetrable armour, to fhut it up even in a caftle, if it were poffible, or elfe his sword fhould reach it. STEEVENS. Aar. Aar. If that be call'd deceit, I will be honest, And that you'll fay, ere half an hour pass. [Afide [He cuts off Titus's hand. Enter Lucius and Marcus again. Tit. Now, ftay your ftrife; what shall be, is dif patch'd. Good Aaron, give his majesty my hand. Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace, [Exit: Tit. O hear!-I lift this one hand up to heaven, And bow this feeble ruin to the earth; To that I call. What, wilt thou kneel with me? Tit. ▾ And do not break into this two extremes.] We fhould read, inftead of this nonsense, woe |