TIT.
Why, Marcus, so she is.
LUC.
Ay me, this object kills me!
TIT.
Faint-hearted boy, arise and look upon her.
Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand
Hath made thee handless in thy father's sight?
What fool hath added water to the sea?
Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy?
My grief was at the height before thou cam'st,
And now like Nilus it disdaineth bounds.
Give me a sword, I'll chop off my hands too,
For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain;
And they have nurs'd this woe, in feeding life;
In bootless prayer have they been held up,
And they have serv'd me to effectless use.
Now all the service I require of them
Is that the one will help to cut the other.
'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands,
For hands to do Rome service is but vain.
LUC.
Speak, gentle sister, who hath mart'red thee?
MARC.
O, that delightful engine of her thoughts,
That blabb'd them with such pleasing eloquence,
Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage,
Where like a sweet melodious bird it sung
Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear!
LUC.
O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed?
MARC.
O, thus I found her straying in the park,
Seeking to hide herself, as doth the deer
That hath receiv'd some unrecuring wound.
TIT.
It was my dear, and he that wounded her
Hath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead:
For now I stand as one upon a rock,
Environ'd with a wilderness of sea,
Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave,
Expecting ever when some envious surge
Will in his brinish bowels swallow him.
This way to death my wretched sons are gone,
Here stands my other son, a banish'd man,
And here my brother, weeping at my woes;
But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul.
Had I but seen thy picture in this plight,
It would have madded me; what shall I do
Now I behold thy lively body so?
Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy tears,
Nor tongue to tell me who hath mart'red thee.
Thy husband he is dead, and for his death
Thy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this.
Look, Marcus! ah, son Lucius, look on her!
When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears
Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew
Upon a gath'red lily almost withered.
MARC.
Perchance she weeps because they kill'd her husband,
Perchance because she knows them innocent.
TIT.
If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful,
Because the law hath ta'en revenge on them.
No, no, they would not do so foul a deed;
Witness the sorrow that their sister makes.
Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips,
Or make some sign how I may do thee ease.
Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius,
And thou, and I, sit round about some fountain,
Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks,
How they are stain'd like meadows yet not dry,
With miry slime left on them by a flood?
And in the fountain shall we gaze so long
Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness,
And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears?
Or shall we cut away our hands like thine?
Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows
Pass the remainder of our hateful days?
What shall we do? Let us that have our tongues
Plot some device of further misery,
To make us wonder'd at in time to come.
LUC.
Sweet father, cease your tears, for at your grief
See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps.
MARC.
Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine eyes.
TIT.
Ah, Marcus, Marcus! brother, well I wot,
Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,
For thou, poor man, hast drown'd it with thine own.
LUC.
Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.
TIT.
Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs.
Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say
That to her brother which I said to thee:
His napkin, with [his] true tears all bewet,
Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks.
O, what a sympathy of woe is this,
As far from help as limbo is from bliss!
Enter Aaron the Moor alone.
AAR.
Titus Andronicus, my lord the Emperor
Sends thee this word – that, if thou love thy sons,
Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus,
Or any one of you, chop off your hand
And send it to the King; he for the same
Will send thee hither both thy sons alive,
And that shall be the ransom for their fault.
TIT.
O gracious Emperor! O gentle Aaron!
Did ever raven sing so like a lark
That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise?
With all my heart I'll send the Emperor my hand.
Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off?
LUC.
Stay, father, for that noble hand of thine,
That hath thrown down so many enemies,
Shall not be sent. My hand will serve the turn.
My youth can better spare my blood than you,
And therefore mine shall save my brothers' lives.
MARC.
Which of your hands hath not defended Rome,
And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-axe,
Writing destruction on the enemy's castle?
O, none of both but are of high desert.
My hand hath been but idle, let it serve
To ransom my two nephews from their death;
Then have I kept it to a worthy end.
AAR.
Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along,
For fear they die before their pardon come.
MARC.
My hand shall go.
LUC.
By heaven, it shall not go!
TIT.
Sirs, strive no more: such with'red herbs as these
Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.
LUC.
Sweet rather, if I shall be thought thy son,
Let me redeem my brothers both from death.
MARC.
And for our father's sake, and mother's care,
Now let me show a brother's love to thee.
TIT.
Agree between you, I will spare my hand.
LUC.
Then I'll go fetch an axe.
MARC.
But I will use the axe.
Exeunt [Lucius and Marcus].
TIT.
Come hither, Aaron. I'll deceive them both;
Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine.
AAR [Aside.]
If that be call'd deceit, I will be honest,
And never whilst I live deceive men so;
But I'll deceive you in another sort,
And that you'll say ere half an hour pass.
He cuts off Titus' hand.
Enter Lucius and Marcus again.
TIT.
Now stay your strife, what shall be is dispatch'd.
Good Aaron, give his Majesty my hand.
Tell him it was a hand that warded him
From thousand dangers, bid him bury it:
More hath it merited, that let it have.
As for my sons, say I account of them
As jewels purchas'd at an easy price,
And yet dear too, because I bought mine own.
AAR.
I go, Andronicus, and for thy hand
Look by and by to have thy sons with thee.
[Aside.]
Their heads, I mean. O how this villainy
Doth fat me with the very thoughts of it!
Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace,
Aaron will have his soul black like his face.
Exit.
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!
[To Lavinia.]
What, wouldst thou kneel with me?
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.
MARC.
O brother, speak with possibility,
And do not break into these deep extremes.
TIT.
Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom?
Then be my passions bottomless with them!
MARC.
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-swoll'n face?
And wilt thou have a reason for this coil?
I am the sea; hark how her sighs doth [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
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 grief their sports! thy resolution mock'd!
That woe is me to think upon thy woes,
More than remembrance of my father's death.
[Exit.]
MARC.
Now let hot Aetna 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 Titus.]
MARC.
Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless
As frozen water to a starved snake.
TIT.
When will this fearful slumber have an end?
MARC.
Now farewell, flatt'ry; 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!
MARC.
Why dost thou laugh? It fits not with this hour.
TIT.
Why, I have not another tear to shed.
Besides, this sorrow is an enemy,
And would usurp upon my wat'ry 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 hath 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;
And, Lavinia, thou shalt be employ'd;
Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth.
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 ye love me, as I think you do,
Let's kiss and part, for we have much to do.
Exeunt. [Manet Lucius.]
LUC.
Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father,
The woefull'st man that ever liv'd in Rome.
Farewell, proud Rome, till Lucius come again;
He loves his pledges dearer than his life.
Farewell, 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 Saturnine and his emperess
Beg at the gates, like Tarquin and his queen.
Now will I to the Goths and raise a pow'r,
To be reveng'd on Rome and Saturnine.
Exit Lucius.
[[Scene II]
A banket [set out]. Enter [Titus] Andronicus, Marcus, Lavinia, and the boy [young Lucius].
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,
Who, when my heart, all mad with misery,
Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh,
Then thus I thump it down.
[To Lavinia.]
Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs!
When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating,
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.
MARC.
Fie, brother, fie, teach her not thus to lay
Such violent hands upon her tender life.
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 Aeneas 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 sorrow, mesh'd upon her cheeks.
Speechless [complainant], 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 talc.
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], 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.
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, it was a black ill-favor'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 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 begin to dazzle.
Exeunt.]
Act IV,
[Scene I]
Enter Lucius' Son, and Lavinia running after him, and the boy flies from her, with his books under his arm. Enter Titus and Marcus.
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.
MARC.
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.
MARC.
What means my niece Lavinia by these signs?
TIT.
Fear her not, Lucius, somewhat doth she mean.
[MARC.]
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 for 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 with her stumps 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?
MARC.
I think she means that there were 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 it me.
MARC.
For love of her that's gone,
Perhaps, she cull'd it from among the rest.
TIT.
Soft, so 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 thy annoy.
MARC.
See, brother, see, note how she cotes 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?
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 discovered 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.
O, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ?
[TIT.]
»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.
O, 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 woeful fere
And father of that chaste dishonored dame,
Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece' rape,
That we will prosecute by good advice
Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths,
And see their blood or die with this reproach.
TIT.
'Tis sure enough, and you knew how,
But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware,
The dam will wake and if she wind ye once,
She's with the lion deeply still in league,
And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back,
And when he sleeps will she do what she list.
You are a young huntsman, Marcus, let alone;
And come, I will go get a leaf of brass,
And with a gad of steel will write these words,
And lay it by. The angry northen wind
Will blow these sands like Sibyl's leaves abroad,
And where's our lesson then? Boy, what say you?
BOY.
I say, my lord, that if I were a man,
Their mother's bedchamber should not be safe
For these base bondmen to the yoke of Rome.
MARC.
Ay, that's my boy! Thy father hath full oft
For his ungrateful country done the like.
BOY.
And, uncle, so will I, and if I live.
TIT.
Come go with me into mine armory;
Lucius, I'll fit thee, and withal my boy
Shall carry from me to the Empress' sons
Presents that I intend to send them both.
Come, come, thou'lt do my message, wilt thou not?
BOY.
Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, grandsire.
TIT.
No, boy, not so, I'll teach thee another course.
Lavinia, come. Marcus, look to my house,
Lucius and I'll go brave it at the court.
Ay, marry, will we, sir, and we'll be waited on.
Exeunt [Titus, Lavinia, and Boy].
MARC.
O heavens, can you hear a good man groan
And not relent, or not compassion him?
Marcus, attend him in his ecstasy,
That hath more scars of sorrow in his heart
Than foemen's marks upon his batt'red shield,
But yet so just that he will not revenge.
Revenge the heavens for old Andronicus!
Exit.
[Scene II]
Enter Aaron, Chiron, and Demetrius at one door; and at the other door young Lucius and another with a bundle of weapons, and verses writ upon them.
CHI.
Demetrius, here's the son of Lucius,
He hath some message to deliver us.
AAR.
Ay, some mad message from his mad grandfather.
BOY.
My lords, with all the humbleness I may,
I greet your honors from Andronicus –
[Aside.]
And pray the Roman gods confound you both!
DEM.
Gramercy, lovely Lucius. What's the news?
BOY [Aside.]
That you are both decipher'd, that's the news,
For villains mark'd with rape. – May it please you,
My grandsire, well advis'd, hath sent by me
The goodliest weapons of his armory
To gratify your honorable youth,
The hope of Rome, for so he bid me say;
And so I do, and with his gifts present
Your lordships, [that,] when ever you have need,
You may be armed and appointed well:
And so I leave you both –
[aside]
like bloody villains.
Exit [with Attendant].
DEM.
What's here? a scroll, and written round about.
Let's see:
[Reads.]
»Integer vitae, scelerisque purus,
Non eget Mauri jaculis, nec arcu.«
CHI.
O, 'tis a verse in Horace, I know it well,
I read it in the grammar long ago.
AAR.
Ay, just – a verse in Horace, right, you have it.
[Aside.]
Now, what a thing it is to be an ass!
Here's no sound jest! The old man hath found their guilt,
And sends them weapons wrapp'd about with lines
That wound beyond their feeling to the quick.
But were our witty Empress well afoot,
She would applaud Andronicus' conceit,
But let her rest in her unrest a while. –
And now, young lords, was't not a happy star
Led us to Rome, strangers, and more than so,
Captives, to be advanced to this height?
It did me good, before the palace gate
To brave the tribune in his brother's hearing.
DEM.
But me more good to see so great a lord
Basely insinuate and send us gifts.
AAR.
Had he not reason, Lord Demetrius?
Did you not use his daughter very friendly?
DEM.
I would we had a thousand Roman dames
At such a bay, by turn to serve our lust.
CHI.
A charitable wish, and full of love.
AAR.
Here lacks but your mother for to say amen.
CHI.
And that would she for twenty thousand more.
DEM.
Come let us go and pray to all the gods
For our beloved mother in her pains.
AAR [Aside.]
Pray to the devils, the gods have given us over.
Trumpets sound [within].
DEM.
Why do the Emperor's trumpets flourish thus?
CHI.
Belike for joy the Emperor hath a son.
DEM.
Soft, who comes here?
Enter Nurse with a blackamoor child.
NUR.
Good morrow, lords.
O, tell me, did you see Aaron the Moor?
AAR.
Well, more or less, or ne'er a whit at all,
Here Aaron is, and what with Aaron now?
NUR.
O gentle Aaron, we are all undone!
Now help, or woe betide thee evermore!
AAR.
Why, what a caterwauling dost thou keep!
What dost thou wrap and fumble in thy arms?
NUR.
O, that which I would hide from heaven's eye,
Our Empress' shame, and stately Rome's disgrace!
She is delivered, lords, she is delivered.
AAR.
To whom?
NUR.
I mean she is brought a-bed.
AAR.
Well, God give her good rest! what hath he sent her?
NUR.
A devil.
AAR.
Why, then she is the devil's dam: a joyful issue.
NUR.
A joyless, dismal, black, and sorrowful issue!
Here is the babe, as loathsome as a toad
Amongst the fair-fac'd breeders of our clime.
The Empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy seal,
And bids thee christen it with thy dagger's point.
AAR.
'Zounds, ye whore, is black so base a hue?
Sweet blowse, you are a beauteous blossom sure.
DEM.
Villain, what hast thou done?
AAR.
That which thou canst not undo.
CHI.
Thou hast undone our mother.
AAR.
Villain, I have done thy mother.
DEM.
And therein, hellish dog, thou hast undone her.
Woe to her chance, and damn'd her loathed choice!
Accurs'd the offspring of so foul a fiend!
CHI.
It shall not live.
AAR.
It shall not die.
NUR.
Aaron, it must, the mother wills it so.
AAR.
What, must it, nurse? then let no man but I
Do execution on my flesh and blood.
DEM.
I'll broach the tadpole on my rapier's point.
Nurse, give it me, my sword shall soon dispatch it.
AAR.
Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels up.
[Takes the child from the Nurse, and draws.]
Stay, murtherous villains, will you kill your brother?
Now, by the burning tapers of the sky,
That shone so brightly when this boy was got,
He dies upon my scimitar's sharp point,
That touches this my first-born son and heir!
I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus,
With all his threat'ning band of Typhon's brood,
Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war,
Shall seize this prey out of his father's hands.
What, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys!
Ye white-lim'd walls! ye alehouse painted signs!
Coal-black is better than another hue,
In that it scorns to bear another hue;
For all the water in the ocean
Can never turn the swan's black legs to white,
Although she lave them hourly in the flood.
Tell the Empress from me, I am of age
To keep mine own, excuse it how she can.
DEM.
Wilt thou betray thy noble mistress thus?
AAR.
My mistress is my mistress, this myself,
The vigor and the picture of my youth:
This before all the world do I prefer,
This maugre all the world will I keep safe,
Or some of you shall smoke for it in Rome.
DEM.
By this our mother is for ever sham'd.
CHI.
Rome will despise her for this foul escape.
NUR.
The Emperor in his rage will doom her death.
CHI.
I blush to think upon this ignomy.
AAR.
Why, there's the privilege your beauty bears.
Fie, treacherous hue, that will betray with blushing
The close enacts and counsels of thy heart!
Here's a young lad fram'd of another leer:
Look how the black slave smiles upon the father,
As who should say, »Old lad, I am thine own.«
He is your brother, lords, sensibly fed
Of that self blood that first gave life to you,
And from your womb where you imprisoned were
He is enfranchised and come to light.
Nay, he is your brother by the surer side,
Although my seal be stamped in his face.
NUR.
Aaron, what shall I say unto the Empress?
DEM.
Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be done,
And we will all subscribe to thy advice:
Save thou the child, so we may all be safe.
AAR.
Then sit we down and let us all consult.
My son and I will have the wind of you;
Keep there. Now talk at pleasure of your safety.
[They sit.]
DEM.
How many women saw this child of his?
AAR.
Why, so, brave lords, when we join in league
I am a lamb, but if you brave the Moor,
The chafed boar, the mountain lioness,
The ocean swells not so as Aaron storms.
But say again, how many saw the child?
NUR.
Cornelia the midwife, and myself,
And no one else but the delivered Empress.
AAR.
The Emperess, the midwife, and yourself.
Two may keep counsel when the third's away.
Go to the Empress, tell her this I said.
He kills her.
Weeke, weeke! – so cries a pig prepared to the spit.
DEM.
What mean'st thou, Aaron? wherefore didst thou this?
AAR.
O Lord, sir, 'tis a deed of policy.
Shall she live to betray this guilt of ours,
A long-tongu'd babbling gossip? No, lords, no.
And now be it known to you my full intent.
Not far, one Muliteus my countryman
His wife but yesternight was brought to bed;
His child is like to her, fair as you are.
Go pack with him, and give the mother gold,
And tell them both the circumstance of all,
And how by this their child shall be advanc'd,
And be received for the Emperor's heir,
And substituted in the place of mine,
To calm this tempest whirling in the court;
And let the Emperor dandle him for his own.
Hark ye, lords, you see I have given her physic,
[Pointing to the Nurse.]
And you must needs bestow her funeral;
The fields are near, and you are gallant grooms.
This done, see that you take no longer days,
But send the midwife presently to me.
The midwife and the nurse well made away,
Then let the ladies tattle what they please.
CHI.
Aaron, I see thou wilt not trust the air
With secrets.
DEM.
For this care of Tamora,
Herself and hers are highly bound to thee.
Exeunt [Demetrius and Chiron, bearing off the Nurse's body].
AAR.
Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies,
There to dispose this treasure in mine arms,
And secretly to greet the Empress' friends.
Come on, you thick-lipp'd slave, I'll bear you hence,
For it is you that puts us to our shifts.
I'll make you feed on berries and on roots,
And feed on curds and whey, and suck the goat,
And cabin in a cave, and bring you up
To be a warrior and command a camp.
Exit.
[Scene III]
Enter Titus, old Marcus, young Lucius, and other gentlemen [Publius, Sempronius, Caius] with bows; and Titus bears the arrows with letters on the ends of them.
TIT.
Come, Marcus, come; kinsmen, this is the way.
Sir boy, let me see your archery.
Look ye draw home enough, and 'tis there straight.
Terras Astraea reliquit;
Be you rememb'red, Marcus, she's gone, she's fled.
Sirs, take you to your tools. You, cousins, shall
Go sound the ocean, and cast your nets;
Happily you may catch her in the sea;
Yet there's as little justice as at land.
No, Publius and Sempronius, you must do it,
'Tis you must dig with mattock and with spade,
And pierce the inmost centre of the earth;
Then when you come to Pluto's region,
I pray you deliver him this petition.
Tell him it is for justice and for aid,
And that it comes from old Andronicus,
Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome.
Ah, Rome! well, well, I made thee miserable
What time I threw the people's suffrages
On him that thus doth tyrannize o'er me.
Go get you gone, and pray be careful all,
And leave you not a man-of-war unsearch'd.
This wicked emperor may have shipp'd her hence,
And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice.
MARC.
O Publius, is not this a heavy case,
To see thy noble uncle thus distract?
PUB.
Therefore, my lords, it highly us concerns
By day and night t' attend him carefully,
And feed his humor kindly as we may,
Till time beget some careful remedy.
MARC.
Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy,
But [...]
Join with the Goths, and with revengeful war
Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude,
And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine.
TIT.
Publius, how now? how now, my masters?
What, have you met with her?
PUB.
No, my good lord, but Pluto sends you word,
If you will have Revenge from hell, you shall.
Marry, for Justice, she is so employ'd,
He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or some where else,
So that perforce you must needs stay a time.
TIT.
He doth me wrong to feed me with delays.
I'll dive into the burning lake below,
And pull her out of Acheron by the heels.
Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we,
No big-bon'd men fram'd of the Cyclops' size,
But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back,
Yet wrung with wrongs more than our backs can bear.
And sith there's no justice in earth nor hell,
We will solicit heaven and move the gods
To send down Justice for to wreak our wrongs.
Come, to this gear. You are a good archer, Marcus;
He gives them the arrows.
›Ad Jovem,‹ that's for you; here, ›Ad Apollinem‹;
›Ad Martem,‹ that's for myself;
Here, boy, ›To Pallas‹; here, ›To Mercury‹;
›To [Saturn],‹ Caius, not to Saturnine:
You were as good to shoot against the wind.
To it, boy! Marcus, loose when I bid.
Of my word, I have written to effect,
There's not a god left unsolicited.
MARC.
Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the court,
We will afflict the Emperor in his pride.
TIT.
Now, masters, draw.
[They shoot.]
O, well said, Lucius!
Good boy, in Virgo's lap; give it Pallas.
MARC.
My lord, I [aim'd] a mile beyond the moon,
Your letter is with Jupiter by this.
TIT.
Ha, ha!
Publius, Publius, what hast thou done?
See, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus' horns.
MARC.
This was the sport, my lord. When Publius shot,
The Bull, being gall'd, gave Aries such a knock
That down fell both the Ram's horns in the court,
And who should find them but the Empress' villain?
She laugh'd, and told the Moor he should not choose
But give them to his master for a present.
TIT.
Why, there it goes.
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