A ftone is filent and offendeth not,

And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death.. But wherefore ftandeft thou with thy weapon drawn?

Luc. Torefcue my two brothers from their death; For which attempt, the judges have pronounced My everlasting doom of banishment.

Tit. O happy man, they have befriended thee:
Why, foolith Lucius, doft thou not perceive
That Rome is but a wilderness of tygers;
Tygers mult 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 the is..

Luc. Ah me! this object kills me.

Tit. Faint-hearted boy, arife, and look upon her: Speak, my Lavinia, what accurfed hand*

Hath made thee handlefs, in thy father's fpight? (16)) What fool hath added water to the fea?

(16)

what accurfid hand

Hath made thee handless in thy father's fight?] But though Lavinia appeared handlefs in her father's prefence, she was not made fo in his fight. And if that be the true reading, it can at best bear but this poor meaning, what curfed hand hath robbed thee of thy hands, for thy father to fee thee in that condition? The flight alteration I have given, adds a much more reasonable complaint, and aggravates the fentiment: What curfed hand hath robbed thee of thy hands, only in defpight to thy father, only to encrease his tor ments?.

Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy?
My grief was at the height before thou cameft,
And now, like Nilus, it disdaineth 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 nurfed this woe, in feeding life:
In bootlefs prayer have they been held up,
And they have ferved me to effectless ufe.
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 martyred
.thee?

Mar. O that delightful engine of her thoughts,
That blabbed them with fuch pleafing eloquence,
Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage,
Where, like a fweet melodious bird, it fung
Sweet various notes, enchanting every ear!

Luc. Oh, fay thou for her, who hath done this .deed!

Mar. O, thus I found her straying in the park, Seeking to hide herfelf; as doth the deer That hath received fome unrecuring wound.

Tit. It was my deer; and he that wounded her,
Hath hurt me more than had he killed me dead:
For now I ftand, as one upon a rock,
Environed with a wildernefs of fea,

Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave;
Expecting ever when fome envious furge
Will in his brinifh bowels fwallow him.
This way to death my wretched fons are gone:
Here stands my other fon, a banished 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 lovely body fo?.

Thou haft no hands to wipe away thy tears,
Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyred thee;
Thy husband, he is dead; and for his death
Thy brothers are condemned, and dead by this.
Look, Marcus! ah, fon Lucius, look on her :
When I did name her brothers, then freth tears
Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew
Upon a gathered lily almoft withered.

Mar. Perchance the weeps because they killed her
husband;

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;
Witnefs the forrow that their fifter makes.
Gentle Lavinia, let me kifs thy lips,

Or make fome figns how I may do thee eafe:
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 tained like meadows yet not dry
With miry flime left on them by a flood?
And in the fountain fhall we gaze fo 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 wondered at in time to come.

Luc. Sweet father, ceafe your tears; for at your See how my wretched filter fobs and weeps. [grief,

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 drowned it with thine

own.

Luc. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks. Tit. Mark, Marcus, mark; I understand her figns; Had the a tongue to fpeak, 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. Oh, what a fyınpathy of woe is this! As far from help as Limbo is from blifs.

Enter AARON.

Aar. Titus Andronicus, my Lord the Emperor
Sends thee this word; that if thou love thy fons,
Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyfelf, old Titus,
Or any one of you, chop off your hand,
And fend it to the King; he for the fame
Will fend thee hither both thy fons alive,
And that fhall be the ranfom of their fault.
Tit. Oh, gracious Emperer! oh, gentle Aaron !
Did ever raven fing so like a lark,

That gives fweet tidings of the fun's uprife?
With all my heart, I'll fend the Emperor my hand;
Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off?

Luc. Stay, father, for that noble hand of thine,
That hath thrown down fo many enemies,
Shall not be fent; my hand will ferve the turn.
My youth can better fpare tay blood than you,
And therefore mine fhall fave my brothers lives.
Mar. Which of your hands hath not defended
And reared aloft the bloody battle-ax,
E

VOL. XI.

[Rome,

Writing deftruction on the enemies cafque? (17)
Oh, none of both but are of high defert:
My hand hath been but idle, let it serve
To ranfom my two nephews from their death;
Then have I kept it to a worthy end.

Aar. Nay, come agree whose hand shall go
For fear they die before their pardon come.
Mar. My hand fhall go.

Luc. By Heaven it fhall not go.

along,

Tit. Sirs, ftrive no more, fuch withered herbs as thefe

Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine. Luc. Sweet father, if fhall be thought thy fon, Let me redeem my brothers both from death.

Mar. And for our father's fake, and mother's Now let me fhow a brother's love to thee. [care, Tit. Agree between you, I will spare my hand. Luc. Then I'll go fetch an ax.

(17) Which of your hands hath not defended Rome, And reared aloft the bloody battle-axe,

Writing deftruction on the enemies caftle?] This is a paffage which shows a most wonderful fagacity in our editors. They could not, fure, intend an improvement of the art military, by teaching us that it was ever a custom to hew down cafiles with the battle-axe. Or could they have a defign to tell us, that they wore caffles formerly on their heads for defenfive armour? There is, indeed, a paffage in Troilus and Creffing, which fuch commentators might alledge in support of fuch a wife opinion:

-and, Diomede,

Stand faft, and wear a cable on thy head, &c.

I ventured, fome time ago, to correct the paffage thus ;
Writing deftruction on the enemies cafk,

ie an helmet, from the rcnch word, une cofque. A broken in the manufcript might eafily be mistaken for tl, and thus a caftle was built at once. But as I think it is much more feifible to split an helmet with a battle-axe, than to cut down a safile with it, I shall continue to stand by my emendation.