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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. O! 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'er

flow? If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, Threat’ning the welkin with his big-swoln face: And wilt thou have a reason 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 repay'd For that good hand thou sent’st the emperor. Here are the heads of thy two noble sons; And here's thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back; Thy griefs their sports, thy resolution mock’d: That woe is me to think upon thy woes,

More than remembrance of my father's death.

[Erit. Mar. Now let hot Ætna cool in Sicily, And be my heart an ever-burning hell! These miseries are more than may be borne! To 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!

[Lavinia 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;
Thou dost not slumber: see, thy two sons' heads;
Thy warlike hand; thy mangled daughter here;
Thy other banish'd son, with this dear sight
Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother, I,
Even like a stony image, cold and numb.
Ah! now no more will I control thy griefs:
Rent off thy silver hair, thy other hand
Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight
The closing up of our most wretched eyes !
Now is a time to storm; why art thou still?

Tit. Ha, ha, ha!
Mar. Why dost thou laugh! it fits not with this

Tit. Why, I have not another tear to shed:
Besides, this sorrow is an enemy,

And would usurp upon my watry eyes,
And make them blind with tributary tears;
Then which way shall I find revenge's cave?
For these two heads do seem to speak to me;
And threat me, I shall never come to bliss,
Till all these mischiefs be return'd again,
Even in their throats that have committed them.
Come, let me see what task I have to do.-
You heavy people, circle me about;
That I may turn me to each one of you,
And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs.
The vow is made.-Come, brother, take a head;
And in this hand the other will I bear:
Lavinia, thou shalt be employed in these things;
Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy

As for thee, boy, go, get thee from my sight;
Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay:
Hie to the Goths, and raise an army there:
And, if you love me, as I think you do,
Let's kiss and part, for we have much to do.

[Exeunt Titus, Marcus, and Lavinia.
Luc. Farewel, Andronicus, my noble father;
The woeful'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.




Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia, and young Lucius,

a boy, Tit. So, so; now sit: and look, you eat no more Than will preserve just so much strength in us As will revenge these bitter woes of ours. Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot; Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands And cannot passionate our tenfold grief With folded arms.

This poor right hand of mine Is left to tyrannize upon my breast; And when my heart, all mad with misery, Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh, Then thus I thump it down.Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs !

[To Lavinia. When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beat

Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still.
Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans;
Or get some little knife between thy teeth,
And just against thy heart make thou a hole;
That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall,
May run into that sink, and soaking in,

Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.
Mar. Fie, brother, fie! teach her not thus to

lay Such violent hands upon her tender life. Tit. How now! has sorrow made thee dote al

ready? 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.Fie, fie, 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 thiy 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 la

ments : Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.

Mar. Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov’d,

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