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Demet. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to
wash; And so, let 's leave her to ber silent walks.
Chi. An 't were my cause, I should go hang myself. Demet. If thou hadst hands to belp thee knit the cord.
[Exeunt Demet. and Chi. Enter Marcus, from hunting. Marc. Who is this? my niece, that flies away so fast? Cousin, a word; where is your husband ? If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me! If I do wake, some planet strike me down, That I may slumber in eternal sleep! Speak, gentle niece; what stern ungentle hands Have lopp’d, and hew'd, and made thy body bare Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in, And might not gain so great a happiness As half thy love? why dost not speak to me? Alas, a crimson river of warm blood, Like to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind, Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips, Coming and going with thy honey breath. But sure some Tereus hath defloured thee, And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue. Ah, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame! And, notwithstanding all this loss of blood, As from a conduit with their issuing spouts, Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face, Blushing to be encounter'd with a cloud. Shall I speak for thee? shall I say, 't is so ? Oh that I knew thy heart, and knew the beast, That I might rail at him to ease my mind ! Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp'd, Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is. Fair Philomela, she but lost her tongue, And in a tedious sampler sew'd her mind.
But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee;
SCENE I.-Rome. A Strect. Enter the Judges and Senators, with MARTIUS and
QUINTUS bound, passing on the stage to the place of execution ; and Titus going before, pleading.
Tit. Hear me, grave fathers! noble tribunes, stay! Tor pity of mine age, whose youth was spent In dangerous wars, whilst you securely slept; For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed; For all the frosty nights that I have watch'd ; And for these bitter tears, which now yon see Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks; Be pitiful to my condemned sons, Whose souls are not corrupted, as 't is thought. For two-and-twenty sons I never wept, Because they died in honour's lofty bed. [Andronicus lics down, and the Judges pass by him For these, tribunes, in the dust I write My heart's deep languor, and my soul's sad tears : Let my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite; My sons' sweet blood will make it shame and blush.
[Exeunt Senators, Tribunes, and Prisoners. O earth, I will befriend thee more with rain, That shall distil from these two ancient ruins, Than youthful April shall with all his showers. In summer's drought I 'll drop upon thee still; In winter, with warın tears I 'll melt the snow, And keep eternal spring-time on thy face, So thou refuse to drink my dear sons' blood.
Enter Lucius, with his weapon drawn. Oh, reverend tribunes! oh, gentle, aged men! Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death;
And let me say, that never wept before,
Luc. Oh, noble father, you lament in vain ;
Tit. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead :
Luc. My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak.
Tit. Why, 't is no matter, man; if they did hear They would not mark me: oh, if they did hear, They would not pity me : Therefore I tell my sorrows bootless to the stones, Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they ’re better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale : When I do weep, they, humbly at my feet, Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me; And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these. A stone is as soft wax, tribunes more hard than stones; A stone is silent, and offendeth not; And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death. But wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawn?
Luc. To rescue my two brothers from their death :
Tit. Oh, happy man, they have befriended thee:
Enter Marcus and LAVINIA.
Tit. Will it consume me? Let me see it, then.
Why, Marcus, so she is. Luc. Ah me! this object kills me.
Tit. Faint-hearted boy, arise and look upon her :
Luc. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyrd thee ?
Marc. Oh, that delightful engine of her thoughts, That blabb'd them with such pleasing eloquence, Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage, Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear.
Luc. Oh, say thcu for her, who hath done this deed ?
Marc. Oh, thus I found her, straying in the park,
Tit. It was my deer; and he that wounded her