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Tell him, it was a hand that warded him
Aar. I go, Andronicus: and for thy hand,
Tit. O, here 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? [To Lar. Do then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our prayers ; Or with our sighs we 'll breathe the welkin dim, And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds, When they do hug him in their melting bosoms.
Mar. 0! brother, speak with possibilities, And do not break into these deep extremes.
Tit. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom ? Then be my passions bottomless with them.
Mar. But yet let reason govern thy lament.
Tit. If there were reason for these miseries, Then into limits could I bind my woes: When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o’erflow? If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, Threat'ning the welkin with his big-swoln face? And wilt thou have a rcason for this coil? I am the sea; hark, how her sighs do blow! She is the weeping welkin, I the earth : Then must my sea be moved with her sighs; Then must my earth with her continual tears Become a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd: For why? my bowels cannot hide her woes, But like a drunkard must I vomit them. Then give me leave ; for losers will have leave To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.
Enter a Messenger, with Two Heads and a Hand.
Mess. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid
Mar. Now let hot Ætna cool in Sicily,
weep with them that weep doth ease some deal, But sorrow flouted at is double death.
Luc. Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound, And yet detested life not shrink thereat! That ever death should let life bear his name, Where life hath no more interest but to breathe!
CLAV. kisses him. Mar. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless, As frozen water to a starved snake.
Tit. When will this fearful slumber have an end?
Mar. Now, farewel, flattery: Die, Andronicus;
Tit. Ha, ha, ha!
Tit. Why, I have not another tear to shed:
And threat me, I shall never come to bliss,
[Exeunt Tit. Mar. and Lav. Luc. Farewel, Andronicus, my noble father; The woful'st man that ever liv'd in Rome! Farewel, proud Rome! till Lucius come again, He leaves his pledges dearer than his life. Farewel, Lavinia, my noble sister; O, 'would thou wert as thou 'tofore hast been! But now nor Lucius, nor Lavinia lives, But in oblivion, and hateful griefs. If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs; And make proud Saturninus and his empress Beg at the gates, like Tarquin and his queen. Now will I to the Goths, and raise a power, To be reveng'd on Rome and Saturnine. [Exit
And cannot passionate our tenfold grief
Mar. Fy, brother, fy! teach her not thus to lay
Tit. How now! has sorrow made thee dote already? Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I. What violent hands can she lay on her life? Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands ;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. Fy, fy, how frantickly 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.
Mar. 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.
[MAR. strikes the Dish with a Knife. What doac thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?
Mar. At that that I have kill'd, my lord; a fly.
Tit. Out on thee, murderer! 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.
Mar. 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 buz 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. Mar. Pardon
'twas a black ill-favour'd fly, Like to the empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him.
Tit. O, O, O,
Mar. Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on him, He takes false shadows for true substances.
Tit. Come, take away.-Lavinia, go with me: