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. Aar. If that be called deceit, I will be honest, And never whilft I live deceive men fo. But I'll deceive you in another fort, And that you'll fay ere half an hour pafs. [Afide. He cuts of Titus's Hand. Enter LUCIUS and MARCUS again. Tit. Now ftay your ftrife; what fhall be is dif Good Aaron, give his Majesty my hand: [patched: Tell him, it was a hand that warded him From thousand dangers; bid him bury it: More hath it merited; that let it have. As for my fons, fay, I account of them As jewels purchased at an eafy price; And yet dear too, becaufe I bought mine own. Aar. I go, Andronicus; and for thy hand Look by and bye to have thy fons with thee: Their heads, I mean.---Oh, how this villainy [fide. Doth fat me with the very thought of it! Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace, Aaron will have his foul black like his face. [Exit. Tit. O hear !---I lift this one hand up to Heaven, And bow this feeble ruin to the earth; If any power pities wretched tears, To that I call. What, wilt thou kneel with me?' Do then, dear heart, for Heaven fhall hear our prayers, Or with our fighs we'll breathe the welkin dim, And ftain the fun with fogs, as fometime clouds, When they do hug him in their melting bofoms. Mar. Oh! brother, fpeak with poffibilities, And do not break into thefe deep extremes. Tit. Is not my forrow deep, having no bottom? Then be my paffions bottomlefs with them. Mar. But yet let reason govern thy lament. Tit. If there were reafon for thefe miferies, Then into limits could I bind my woes. When Heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'er- I am the fea; hark, how her fighs do blow; Hand. Mef. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repayed For that good hand thou fenteft the Emperor; Here are the heads of thy two noble fons, And here's thy hand in fcorn to thee fent back; Thy grief's their fport, thy refolution mock'd: That woe is me to think upon thy woes, More than remembrance of my father's death! Mar. Now let hot Etna cool in Sicily, And be my heart an ever-burning hell; Thefe miferies are more than may be borne! To weep with them that weep doth eafe fome deal, But forrow floated at is double death. Luc. Ah, that this fight fhould make fo deep a And yet detefted life not thrink thereat! [wound, That ever death fhould let life bear his name, Where life hath no more intereft but to breathe! Mar. Alas, poor heart, that kifs is comfortless, As frozen water to `a ftarved snake. Tit. When will this fearful flumber have an end? Mar. Now, farewel flattery! die, Andronicus; Thou dost not flumber; fee, thy two fons heads, Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here; Thy other banifhed fon with this dear fight Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother I, Even like a ftony image, cold and numb. Ah, now no more will I controul thy griefs; (18) Rend off thy filver hair, thy other hand Gnawing with thy teeth, and be this dimal fight The cloling up of your moft wretched eyes; Now is a time to ftorm, why art thou still? Tit. Ha, ha, ha Mar. Why doit thou laugh? it fits not with this hour. Tit. Why, I have not another tear to fhed; And would ufurp upon my watery eyes, (18) Ah, now no more will I control my griefs ;] I read,— thy griefs. Marcus had before perfuaded Titus to be temperate and reftrain the excefs of his forrows; but now (fays he) that fo miferable an object is prefented to your fight as a dear daughter fo heinously abufed, e'en indulge your for rows till they put an end to your miferable life. The vow is made;---come, brother, take a head, Lavinia, thou shalt be employed in thefe things; Let's kifs and part, for we have much to do. [Exe. Luc. Farewel, Andronicus, my noble father, O, would thou wert as thou tofore haft been! If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs, [Exit Lucius. SCENE, an Apartment in Titus's House. Enter TITUS, MARCUS, LAVINIA, and young LU-- Tit. So, fo, now fit; and look, you eat no more Than will preferve juft fo much ftrength in us As will revenge thefe bitter woes of ours. Marcus, unknit that forrow-wreathen knot; Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands, And cannot paflionate our ten-fold grief. With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine And when my heart, all mad with mifery, Thou map of woe, that thus doft talk in figns ! Mar. Fy, brother, fy, teach her not thus to lay Such violent hands upon her tender life. Tit. How now! has forrow made thee doat already? Why, Marcus, no man fhould be mad but I; How Troy was burnt, and he made miferable? |