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Chi. An 't were my case, I should go hang my
self. Dem. If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the
cord. [Exeunt Demetrius and Chiron.
Enter Marcus. Mar. Who's 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
And might not gain so great a happiness,
O, that I knew thy heart; and knew the beast,
Enter Senators, Tribunes, and Officers of justice, with
Martius and Quintus, bound, passing on to the place of execution; Titus going before, pleading. Tit. Hear me, grave fathers ! noble tribunes,
stay! For 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 you see Filling the aged wrinkles în my cheeks; Be pitiful to my condemned sons, Whose souls are not corrupted as 'tis thought! For two and twenty sons I never wept, Because they died in honour's lofty bed. For these, these, tribunes, in the dust I write
[Throwing himself on the ground. 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, fc. with the prisoners. O earth! I will befriend thee more with rain, That shall distil from these two ancient urns, Than youthful April shall with all his showers: In summer's drought, I'll drop upon thee still; In winter, with warm tears I'll melt the snow,
And keep eternal spring-time on thy face,
Enter Lucius, with his sword drawn.
Luc. O, noble father, you lament in vain;
you recount your sorrows to a stone. Tit. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead: Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you. Luc. My gracious lord, no tribune hears you
speak. Tit. Why, 'tis no matter, man: if they did hear, They would not mark me; or, if they did mark, All bootless to them, they'd not pity me. Therefore I tell my sorrows 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 soft as 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: For which attempt, the judges have pronounc'd My everlasting doom of banishment.
Tit. O happy man! they have befriended thee. Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive, That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers? Tigers must prey; and Rome affords no prey, But me and mine: How happy art thou then, From these devourers to be banished? But who comes with our brother Marcus here?
Enter Marcus and Lavinia.
Mar. Titus, prepare thy noble eyes to weep;
Tit. Will it consume me? let me see it then.