Part 10

Exeunt.

Winde Hornes.

Enter Marcus from hunting, to Lauinia.

Who is this, my Neece that flies away so fast? Cosen a word, where is your husband? If I do dreame, would all my wealth would wake me; If I doe wake, some Planet strike me downe, That I may slumber in eternall sleepe. Speake gentle Neece, what sterne vngentle hands Hath lopt, and hew'd, and made thy body bare Of her two branches, those sweet Ornaments Whose circkling shadowes, Kings haue sought to sleep in And might not gaine so great a happines As halfe thy Loue: Why doost not speake to me? Alas, a Crimson riuer of warme blood, Like to a bubling fountaine stir'd with winde, Doth rise and fall betweene thy Rosed lips, Comming and going with thy hony breath. But sure some Tereus hath defloured thee, And least thou should'st detect them, cut thy tongue. Ah, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame: And notwithstanding all this losse of blood, As from a Conduit with their issuing Spouts, Yet doe thy cheekes looke red as Titans face, Blushing to be encountred with a Cloud, Shall I speake for thee? shall I say 'tis so? Oh that I knew thy hart, and knew the beast That I might raile at him to ease my mind. Sorrow concealed, like an Ouen stopt. Doth burne the hart to Cinders where it is. Faire Philomela she but lost her tongue, And in a tedious Sampler sowed her minde. But louely Neece, that meane is cut from thee, A craftier Tereus hast thou met withall, And he hath cut those pretty fingers off, That could haue better sowed then Philomel. Oh had the monster seene those Lilly hands, Tremble like Aspen leaues vpon a Lute, And make the silken strings delight to kisse them, He would not then haue toucht them for his life. Or had he heard the heauenly Harmony, Which that sweet tongue hath made: He would haue dropt his knife and fell asleepe, As Cerberus at the Thracian Poets feete. Come, let vs goe, and make thy father blinde, For such a sight will blinde a fathers eye. One houres storme will drowne the fragrant meades, What, will whole months of teares thy Fathers eyes? Doe not draw backe, for we will mourne with thee: Oh could our mourning ease thy misery.

Exeunt.

Actus Tertius.

Enter the Iudges and Senatours with Titus two sonnes bound, passing on the Stage to the place of execution, and Titus going before pleading.

Ti. Heare me graue fathers, noble Tribunes stay, For pitty of mine age, whose youth was spent In dangerous warres, whilst you securely slept: For all my blood in Romes great quarrell shed, For all the frosty nights that I haue watcht, And for these bitter teares, which now you see, Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheekes, Be pittifull to my condemned Sonnes, Whose soules is not corrupted as 'tis thought: For two and twenty sonnes I neuer wept, Because they died in honours lofty bed. Andronicus lyeth downe, and the Iudges passe by him. For these, Tribunes, in the dust I write My harts deepe languor, and my soules sad teares: Let my teares stanch the earths drie appetite. My sonnes sweet blood, will make it shame and blush: O earth! I will be friend thee more with raine

Exeunt.

That shall distill from these two ancient ruines, Then youthfull Aprill shall with all his showres In summers drought: Ile drop vpon thee still, In Winter with warme teares Ile melt the snow, And keepe eternall spring time on thy face, So thou refuse to drinke my deare sonnes blood. Enter Lucius, with his weapon drawne.

Oh reuerent Tribunes, oh gentle aged men, Vnbinde my sonnes, reuerse the doome of death, And let me say (that neuer wept before) My teares are now preualing Oratours

Lu. Oh noble father, you lament in vaine, The Tribunes heare not, no man is by, And you recount your sorrowes to a stone

Ti. Ah Lucius for thy brothers let me plead, Graue Tribunes, once more I intreat of you

Lu. My gracious Lord, no Tribune heares you speake

Ti. Why 'tis no matter man, if they did heare They would not marke me: oh if they did heare They would not pitty me. Therefore I tell my sorrowes bootles to the stones. Who though they cannot answere my distresse, Yet in some sort they are better then the Tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale; When I doe weepe, they humbly at my feete Receiue my teares, and seeme to weepe with me, And were they but attired in graue weedes, Rome could afford no Tribune like to these. A stone is as soft waxe, Tribunes more hard then stones: A stone is silent, and offendeth not, And Tribunes with their tongues doome men to death. But wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawne? Lu. To rescue my two brothers from their death, For which attempt the Iudges haue pronounc'st My euerlasting doome of banishment

Ti. O happy man, they haue befriended thee: Why foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceiue That Rome is but a wildernes of Tigers? Tigers must pray, and Rome affords no prey But me and mine: how happy art thou then, From these deuourers to be banished? But who comes with our brother Marcus heere? Enter Marcus and Lauinia.

Mar. Titus, prepare thy noble eyes to weepe, Or if not so, thy noble heart to breake: I bring consuming sorrow to thine age

Ti. Will it consume me? Let me see it then

Mar. This was thy daughter

Ti. Why Marcus so she is

Luc. Aye me this obiect kils me

Ti. Faint-harted boy, arise and looke vpon her, Speake Lauinia, what accursed hand Hath made thee handlesse in thy Fathers sight? What foole hath added water to the Sea? Or brought a faggot to bright burning Troy? My griefe was at the height before thou cam'st, And now like Nylus it disdaineth bounds: Giue me a sword, Ile chop off my hands too, For they haue fought for Rome, and all in vaine: And they haue nur'st this woe, In feeding life: In bootelesse prayer haue they bene held vp, And they haue seru'd me to effectlesse vse. Now all the seruice I require of them, Is that the one will helpe to cut the other: 'Tis well Lauinia, that thou hast no hands, For hands to do Rome seruice, is but vaine

Luci. Speake gentle sister, who hath martyr'd thee? Mar. O that delightfull engine of her thoughts, That blab'd them with such pleasing eloquence, Is torne from forth that pretty hollow cage, Where like a sweet mellodius bird it sung, Sweet varied notes inchanting euery eare

Luci. Oh say thou for her, Who hath done this deed? Marc. Oh thus I found her straying in the Parke, Seeking to hide herselfe as doth the Deare That hath receiude some vnrecuring wound

Tit. It was my Deare, And he that wounded her, Hath hurt me more, then had he kild me dead: For now I stand as one vpon a Rocke, Inuiron'd with a wildernesse of Sea. Who markes the waxing tide, Grow waue by waue, Expecting euer when some enuious surge, Will in his brinish bowels swallow him. This way to death my wretched sonnes are gone: Heere stands my other sonne, a banisht man, And heere my brother weeping at my woes. But that which giues my soule the greatest spurne, Is deere Lauinia, deerer then my soule. Had I but seene thy picture in this plight, It would haue madded me. What shall I doe? Now I behold thy liuely body so? Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy teares, 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. Looke Marcus, ah sonne Lucius looke on her: When I did name her brothers, then fresh teares Stood on her cheekes, as doth the hony dew, Vpon a gathred Lillie almost withered

Mar. Perchance she weepes because they kil'd her husband, Perchance because she knowes him innocent

Ti. If they did kill thy husband then be ioyfull, Because the law hath tane reuenge on them. No, no, they would not doe so foule a deede, Witnes the sorrow that their sister makes. Gentle Lauinia let me kisse thy lips, Or make some signes how I may do thee ease: Shall thy good Vncle, and thy brother Lucius, And thou and I sit round about some Fountaine, Looking all downewards to behold our cheekes How they are stain'd in meadowes, yet not dry With miery slime left on them by a flood: And in the Fountaine shall we gaze so long, Till the fresh taste be taken from that cleerenes, And made a brine pit with our bitter teares? Or shall we cut away our hands like thine? Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumbe shewes Passe the remainder of our hatefull dayes? What shall we doe? Let vs that haue our tongues Plot some deuise of further miseries To make vs wondred at in time to come

Lu. Sweet Father cease your teares, for at your griefe See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps