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Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness.
Tit. Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of

And tears will quickly melt thy life away.-

[Marcus strikes the dish with a knife. What dost 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

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 mo-

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 me, sir; 'twas a black ill-favour'd

fly, Like to the empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him.

Tit. O, O, O,
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 do 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.
Mar. Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on

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.






Enter Titus and Marcus. Then enter young Lucius,

Lavinia running after him. Boy. Help, grandsire, help! my aunt Lavinia Follows me every where, I know not why:Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes ! Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean. Mar. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine

aunt. Tit. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee

harm. Boy. Ay, when my father was in Rome, she

did. Mar. 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. Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care Read to her sons, 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

Causeless, perhaps: But pardon me, sweet aunt:
And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,
I will most willingly attend your ladyship.
Mar. 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. Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus? Mar. 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, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphosis;
My mother gave't me.

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

Tit. Soft! see, how busily she turns the leaves!

Help her:-
What would she find?- Lavinia, shall I read?
This is the tragick tale of Philomel,
And treats of Tereus' treason, and his rape;
And rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy.
Mar. See, brother, see; note, how she quotes

the leaves.
Tit. Lavinia, wert thou thus surpriz’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 murders, and for rapes.

Mar. 0, why should nature build so foul a den, Unless the gods delight in tragedies ! 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? Mar. 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: This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst, This after me, when I have writ my name Without the help of any hand at all. [He writes his name with his staff, and guides it

with his feet and mouth.

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