To bid Æneas tell the tale twice o'er,

How Troy was burnt, and he made miserable?
O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands;
Lest we remember still that we have none.-
Fie, fie, how franticly I square my talk!
As if we should forget we had no hands,

If Marcus did not name the word of hands!-
Come, let's fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this :-
Here is no drink! Hark, Marcus, what she says;-
I can interpret all her martyr'd signs ;—

She says she drinks no other drink but tears,
Brew'd with her sorrows, mesh'd upon her cheeks :—
Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought;
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect

As begging hermits in their holy prayers:

Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven,
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign,
But I, of these, will wrest an alphabet,

And, by still practice, learn to know thy meaning.
Boy. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments:
Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.
Marc. Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov'd,

Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness.

Tit. Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears, And tears will quickly melt thy life away.—

[MARCUS strikes the dish with a knife. What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife? Marc. At that that I have kill'd, my lord; a fly. Tit. Out on thee, murtherer! thou kill'st my heart; Mine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny: A deed of death, done on the innocent, Becomes not Titus' brother: Get thee gone;

I see thou art not for my company.

Marc. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.

Tit. But how, if that fly had a father and mother? How would he hang his slender gilded wings, And buzz lamenting doings in the air!

Poor harmless fly!

That, with his pretty buzzing melody,

Came here to make us merry; and thou hast kill'd him.
Marc. Pardon me, sir; 't was a black ill-favour'd fly,
Like to the empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him.
Tit. 0, 0, 0,

Then pardon me for reprehending thee,

For thou hast done a charitable deed.
Give me thy knife, I will insult on him;
Flattering myself, as if it were the Moor;
Come hither purposely to poison me.-
There's for thyself, and that 's for Tamora.-
Ah, sirrah!

Yet, I think we are not brought so low,
But that, between us, we can kill a fly,

That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.

Marc. Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on him,

He takes false shadows for true substances.

Tit. Come, take away.-Lavinia, go with me:
I'll to thy closet; and go read with thee
Sad stories, chanced in the times of old.-
Come, boy, and go with me; thy sight is young,
And thou shalt read, when mine begins to dazzle.

[Exeunt.

་

ACT IV.

SCENE I.-Before Titus's House.

Enter Tirus and MARCUS; then Young LucIUS, and LAVINIA running after him, the boy flying from her with his books under his arm.

Boy. Help, grandsire, help! my aunt Lavinia
Follows me everywhere, I know not why.
Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes!
Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean.
Marc. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thy aunt.
Tit. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm.
Boy. Ay, when my father was in Rome she did.
Marc. What means my niece Lavinia by these signs?
Tit. Fear her not, Lucius: somewhat doth she mean.
See, Lucius, see, how much she makes of thee:
Somewhither would she have thee go with her.
Ay, boy, Cornelia never with more care

Read to her son than she hath read to thee,
Sweet poetry, and Tully's Orator:

Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus ?
Boy. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,
Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her:
For I have heard my grandsire say full oft,
Extremity of griefs would make men mad:
And I have read that Hecuba of Troy

Ran mad through sorrow: That made me to fear;
Although, my lord, I know my noble aunt
Loves me as dear as e'er my mother did,

And would not, but in fury, fright my youth:
Which made me down to throw my books, and fly,
Causeless, perhaps : but pardon me, sweet aunt:
And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,

I will most willingly attend your ladyship.

Marc. Lucius, I will. [LAVINIA turns over the books which LUCIUS has let fall.

Tit. How now, Lavinia? Marcus, what means this? Some book there is that she desires to see: Which is it, girl, of these? open them, boy. But thou art deeper read, and better skill'd: Come, and take choice of all my library; And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed. What book?

Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus?

Marc. I think she means that there was more than one Confederate in the fact ;-ay, more there was: Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge. Tit. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so? Boy. Grandsire, 't is Ovid's Metamorphoses; My mother gave it me.

Marc. For love of her that 's gone, Perhaps, she cull'd it from among the rest.

Tit. Soft! How busily she turns the leaves!

Help her what would she find? Lavinia, shall I read? This is the tragic tale of Philomel,

And treats of Tereus' treason and his rape;

And rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy.

Marc. See, brother, see; note how she quotes the leaves.

Tit. Lavinia, wert thou thus surpris'd, sweet girl, Ravish'd and wrong'd as Philomela was,

Forc'd in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods? See, see! Ay, such a place there is where we did hunt, (O had we never, never hunted there!)

Pattern'd by that the poet here describes,

By nature made for murthers and for rapes.

Marc. O, why should nature build so foul a den, Unless the gods delight in tragedies?

a Quotes-observes, searches through.

Tit. Give signs, sweet girl,-for here are none but

friends,

What Roman lord it was durst do the deed?

Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst,

That left the camp to sin in Lucrece' bed.

Marc. Sit down, sweet niece; brother, sit down by

me.

Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,

Inspire me that I may this treason find.

My lord, look here; look here, Lavinia.

[He writes his name with his staff, and guides
it with feet and mouth.

This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst,
This, after me. I have writ my name,
Without the help of any hand at all.

Curs'd be that heart that forc'd us to this shift!
Write thou, good niece, and here display at last,
What God will have discover'd for revenge.
Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain,
That we may know the traitors and the truth!

[She takes the staff in her mouth, and guides
it with her stumps, and writes.

Tit. Oh, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ? "Stuprum, Chiron, Demetrius."

Marc. What, what! the lustful sons of Tamora, Performers of this heinous, bloody deed?

Tit. Magni Dominator poli,

Tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides?

Marc. Oh, calm thee, gentle lord; although I know There is enough written upon this earth

To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts,

And arm the minds of infants to exclaims.

My lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel;
And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope;
And swear with me,-as with the woful fere,"
And father of that chaste dishonour'd dame,

a Fere a companion, and here a husband.