Chapter LXVI: Part 66

Dem. This is a witnesse that I am thy Sonne.

stab him.

Chi. And this for me,
Strook home to shew my strength

Laui. I come Semeramis, nay Barbarous Tamora.
For no name fits thy nature but thy owne

Tam. Giue me thy poyniard, you shal know my boyes
Your Mothers hand shall right your Mothers wrong

Deme. Stay Madam heere is more belongs to her, First thrash the Corne, then after burne the straw: This Minion stood vpon her chastity, Vpon her Nuptiall vow, her loyaltie. And with that painted hope, braues your Mightinesse, And shall she carry this vnto her graue? Chi. And if she doe, I would I were an Eunuch, Drag hence her husband to some secret hole, And make his dead Trunke-Pillow to our lust

Tamo. But when ye haue the hony we desire,
Let not this Waspe out-liue vs both to sting

Chir. I warrant you Madam we will make that sure: Come Mistris, now perforce we will enioy, That nice-preserued honesty of yours

Laui. Oh Tamora, thou bear'st a woman face

Tamo. I will not heare her speake, away with her

Laui. Sweet Lords intreat her heare me but a word

Demet. Listen faire Madam, let it be your glory To see her teares, but be your hart to them, As vnrelenting flint to drops of raine

Laui. When did the Tigers young-ones teach the dam? O doe not learne her wrath, she taught it thee, The milke thou suck'st from her did turne to Marble, Euen at thy Teat thou had'st thy Tyranny, Yet euery Mother breeds not Sonnes alike, Do thou intreat her shew a woman pitty

Chiro. What, Would'st thou haue me proue my selfe a bastard? Laui. 'Tis true, The Rauen doth not hatch a Larke, Yet haue I heard, Oh could I finde it now, The Lion mou'd with pitty, did indure To haue his Princely pawes par'd all away. Some say, that Rauens foster forlorne children, The whil'st their owne birds famish in their nests: Oh be to me though thy hard hart say no, Nothing so kind but something pittifull

Tamo. I know not what it meanes, away with her

Lauin. Oh let me teach thee for my Fathers sake, That gaue thee life when well he might haue slaine thee: Be not obdurate, open thy deafe eares

Tamo. Had'st thou in person nere offended me. Euen for his sake am I pittilesse: Remember Boyes I powr'd forth teares in vaine, To saue your brother from the sacrifice, But fierce Andronicus would not relent, Therefore away with her, and vse her as you will, The worse to her, the better lou'd of me

Laui. Oh Tamora, Be call'd a gentle Queene, And with thine owne hands kill me in this place, For 'tis not life that I haue beg'd so long, Poore I was slaine, when Bassianus dy'd

Tam. What beg'st thou then? fond woman let me go? Laui. 'Tis present death I beg, and one thing more, That womanhood denies my tongue to tell: Oh keepe me from their worse then killing lust, And tumble me into some loathsome pit, Where neuer mans eye may behold my body, Doe this, and be a charitable murderer

Tam. So should I rob my sweet Sonnes of their fee,
No let them satisfie their lust on thee

Deme. Away,
For thou hast staid vs heere too long

Lauinia. No Grace, No womanhood? Ah beastly creature, The blot and enemy to our generall name, Confusion fall- Chi. Nay then Ile stop your mouth Bring thou her husband, This is the Hole where Aaron bid vs hide him

Tam. Farewell my Sonnes, see that you make her sure, Nere let my heart know merry cheere indeed, Till all the Andronici be made away: Now will I hence to seeke my louely Moore, And let my spleenefull Sonnes this Trull defloure. Enter.

Enter Aaron with two of Titus Sonnes.

Aron. Come on my Lords, the better foote before, Straight will I bring you to the lothsome pit, Where I espied the Panther fast asleepe

Quin. My sight is very dull what ere it bodes

Marti. And mine I promise you, were it not for shame,
Well could I leaue our sport to sleepe a while

Quin. What art thou fallen? What subtile Hole is this, Whose mouth is couered with Rude growing Briers, Vpon whose leaues are drops of new-shed-blood, As fresh as mornings dew distil'd on flowers, A very fatall place it seemes to me: Speake Brother hast thou hurt thee with the fall? Martius. Oh Brother, With the dismal'st obiect That euer eye with sight made heart lament

Aron. Now will I fetch the King to finde them heere, That he thereby may haue a likely gesse, How these were they that made away his Brother.

Exit Aaron.

Marti. Why dost not comfort me and helpe me out, From this vnhallow'd and blood-stained Hole? Quintus. I am surprised with an vncouth feare, A chilling sweat ore-runs my trembling ioynts, My heart suspects more then mine eie can see

Marti. To proue thou hast a true diuining heart,
Aaron and thou looke downe into this den,
And see a fearefull sight of blood and death

Quintus. Aaron is gone, And my compassionate heart Will not permit mine eyes once to behold The thing whereat it trembles by surmise: Oh tell me how it is, for nere till now Was I a child to feare I know not what

Marti. Lord Bassianus lies embrewed heere, All on a heape like to the slaughtred Lambe, In this detested, darke, blood-drinking pit

Quin. If it be darke, how doost thou know 'tis he? Mart. Vpon his bloody finger he doth weare A precious Ring, that lightens all the Hole: Which like a Taper in some Monument, Doth shine vpon the dead mans earthly cheekes, And shewes the ragged intrailes of the pit: So pale did shine the Moone on Piramus, When he by night lay bath'd in Maiden blood: O Brother helpe me with thy fainting hand. If feare hath made thee faint, as mee it hath, Out of this fell deuouring receptacle, As hatefull as Ocitus mistie mouth

Quint. Reach me thy hand, that I may helpe thee out, Or wanting strength to doe thee so much good, I may be pluckt into the swallowing wombe, Of this deepe pit, poore Bassianus graue: I haue no strength to plucke thee to the brinke

Martius. Nor I no strength to clime without thy help

Quin. Thy hand once more, I will not loose againe, Till thou art heere aloft, or I below, Thou can'st not come to me, I come to thee.

Both fall in.

Enter the Emperour, Aaron the Moore.

Satur. Along with me, Ile see what hole is heere, And what he is that now is leapt into it. Say, who art thou that lately did'st descend, Into this gaping hollow of the earth? Marti. The vnhappie sonne of old Andronicus, Brought hither in a most vnluckie houre, To finde thy brother Bassianus dead

Satur. My brother dead? I know thou dost but iest, He and his Lady both are at the Lodge, Vpon the North-side of this pleasant Chase, 'Tis not an houre since I left him there

Marti. We know not where you left him all aliue, But out alas, heere haue we found him dead. Enter Tamora, Andronicus, and Lucius.

Tamo. Where is my Lord the King?
King. Heere Tamora, though grieu'd with killing griefe

Tam. Where is thy brother Bassianus?
King. Now to the bottome dost thou search my wound,
Poore Bassianus heere lies murthered

Tam. Then all too late I bring this fatall writ, The complot of this timelesse Tragedie, And wonder greatly that mans face can fold, In pleasing smiles such murderous Tyrannie.

She giueth Saturnine a Letter.

Saturninus reads the Letter. And if we misse to meete him hansomely, Sweet huntsman, Bassianus 'tis we meane, Doe thou so much as dig the graue for him, Thou know'st our meaning, looke for thy reward Among the Nettles at the Elder tree: Which ouer-shades the mouth of that same pit: Where we decreed to bury Bassianuss Doe this and purchase vs thy lasting friends

King. Oh Tamora, was euer heard the like? This is the pit, and this the Elder tree, Looke sirs, if you can finde the huntsman out, That should haue murthered Bassianus heere

Aron. My gracious Lord heere is the bag of Gold

King. Two of thy whelpes, fell Curs of bloody kind Haue heere bereft my brother of his life: Sirs drag them from the pit vnto the prison, There let them bide vntill we haue deuis'd Some neuer heard-of tortering paine for them

Tamo. What are they in this pit, Oh wondrous thing! How easily murder is discouered? Tit. High Emperour, vpon my feeble knee, I beg this boone, with teares, not lightly shed, That this fell fault of my accursed Sonnes, Accursed, if the faults be prou'd in them

King. If it be prou'd? you see it is apparant,
Who found this Letter, Tamora was it you?
Tamora. Andronicus himselfe did take it vp

Tit. I did my Lord, Yet let me be their baile, For by my Fathers reuerent Tombe I vow They shall be ready at your Highnes will, To answere their suspition with their liues

King. Thou shalt not baile them, see thou follow me: Some bring the murthered body, some the murtherers, Let them not speake a word, the guilt is plaine, For by my soule, were there worse end then death, That end vpon them should be executed

Tamo. Andronicus I will entreat the King,
Feare not thy Sonnes, they shall do well enough

Tit. Come Lucius come,
Stay not to talke with them.

Exeunt.

Enter the Empresse Sonnes, with Lauinia, her hands cut off and her tongue cut out, and rauisht.

Deme. So now goe tell and if thy tongue can speake,
Who t'was that cut thy tongue and rauisht thee

Chi. Write downe thy mind, bewray thy meaning so,
And if thy stumpes will let thee play the Scribe

Dem. See how with signes and tokens she can scowle

Chi. Goe home,
Call for sweet water, wash thy hands

Dem. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash.
And so let's leaue her to her silent walkes

Chi. And t'were my cause, I should goe hang my selfe

Dem. If thou had'st hands to helpe thee knit the cord.

Exeunt.

Winde Hornes.

Enter Marcus from hunting, to Lauinia.

Who is this, my Neece that flies away so fast? Cosen a word, where is your husband? If I do dreame, would all my wealth would wake me; If I doe wake, some Planet strike me downe, That I may slumber in eternall sleepe. Speake gentle Neece, what sterne vngentle hands Hath lopt, and hew'd, and made thy body bare Of her two branches, those sweet Ornaments Whose circkling shadowes, Kings haue sought to sleep in And might not gaine so great a happines As halfe thy Loue: Why doost not speake to me? Alas, a Crimson riuer of warme blood, Like to a bubling fountaine stir'd with winde, Doth rise and fall betweene thy Rosed lips, Comming and going with thy hony breath. But sure some Tereus hath defloured thee, And least thou should'st detect them, cut thy tongue. Ah, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame: And notwithstanding all this losse of blood, As from a Conduit with their issuing Spouts, Yet doe thy cheekes looke red as Titans face, Blushing to be encountred with a Cloud, Shall I speake for thee? shall I say 'tis so? Oh that I knew thy hart, and knew the beast That I might raile at him to ease my mind. Sorrow concealed, like an Ouen stopt. Doth burne the hart to Cinders where it is. Faire Philomela she but lost her tongue, And in a tedious Sampler sowed her minde. But louely Neece, that meane is cut from thee, A craftier Tereus hast thou met withall, And he hath cut those pretty fingers off, That could haue better sowed then Philomel. Oh had the monster seene those Lilly hands, Tremble like Aspen leaues vpon a Lute, And make the silken strings delight to kisse them, He would not then haue toucht them for his life. Or had he heard the heauenly Harmony, Which that sweet tongue hath made: He would haue dropt his knife and fell asleepe, As Cerberus at the Thracian Poets feete. Come, let vs goe, and make thy father blinde, For such a sight will blinde a fathers eye. One houres storme will drowne the fragrant meades, What, will whole months of teares thy Fathers eyes? Doe not draw backe, for we will mourne with thee: Oh could our mourning ease thy misery.

Exeunt.

Actus Tertius.

Enter the Iudges and Senatours with Titus two sonnes bound, passing on the Stage to the place of execution, and Titus going before pleading.

Ti. Heare me graue fathers, noble Tribunes stay, For pitty of mine age, whose youth was spent In dangerous warres, whilst you securely slept: For all my blood in Romes great quarrell shed, For all the frosty nights that I haue watcht, And for these bitter teares, which now you see, Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheekes, Be pittifull to my condemned Sonnes, Whose soules is not corrupted as 'tis thought: For two and twenty sonnes I neuer wept, Because they died in honours lofty bed. Andronicus lyeth downe, and the Iudges passe by him. For these, Tribunes, in the dust I write My harts deepe languor, and my soules sad teares: Let my teares stanch the earths drie appetite. My sonnes sweet blood, will make it shame and blush: O earth! I will be friend thee more with raine

Exeunt.

That shall distill from these two ancient ruines, Then youthfull Aprill shall with all his showres In summers drought: Ile drop vpon thee still, In Winter with warme teares Ile melt the snow, And keepe eternall spring time on thy face, So thou refuse to drinke my deare sonnes blood. Enter Lucius, with his weapon drawne.

Oh reuerent Tribunes, oh gentle aged men, Vnbinde my sonnes, reuerse the doome of death, And let me say (that neuer wept before) My teares are now preualing Oratours

Lu. Oh noble father, you lament in vaine, The Tribunes heare not, no man is by, And you recount your sorrowes to a stone

Ti. Ah Lucius for thy brothers let me plead,
Graue Tribunes, once more I intreat of you

Lu. My gracious Lord, no Tribune heares you speake

Ti. Why 'tis no matter man, if they did heare They would not marke me: oh if they did heare They would not pitty me. Therefore I tell my sorrowes bootles to the stones. Who though they cannot answere my distresse, Yet in some sort they are better then the Tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale; When I doe weepe, they humbly at my feete Receiue my teares, and seeme to weepe with me, And were they but attired in graue weedes, Rome could afford no Tribune like to these. A stone is as soft waxe, Tribunes more hard then stones: A stone is silent, and offendeth not, And Tribunes with their tongues doome men to death. But wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawne? Lu. To rescue my two brothers from their death, For which attempt the Iudges haue pronounc'st My euerlasting doome of banishment

Ti. O happy man, they haue befriended thee: Why foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceiue That Rome is but a wildernes of Tigers? Tigers must pray, and Rome affords no prey But me and mine: how happy art thou then, From these deuourers to be banished? But who comes with our brother Marcus heere? Enter Marcus and Lauinia.

Mar. Titus, prepare thy noble eyes to weepe, Or if not so, thy noble heart to breake: I bring consuming sorrow to thine age

Ti. Will it consume me? Let me see it then

Mar. This was thy daughter

Ti. Why Marcus so she is

Luc. Aye me this obiect kils me

Ti. Faint-harted boy, arise and looke vpon her, Speake Lauinia, what accursed hand Hath made thee handlesse in thy Fathers sight? What foole hath added water to the Sea? Or brought a faggot to bright burning Troy? My griefe was at the height before thou cam'st, And now like Nylus it disdaineth bounds: Giue me a sword, Ile chop off my hands too, For they haue fought for Rome, and all in vaine: And they haue nur'st this woe, In feeding life: In bootelesse prayer haue they bene held vp, And they haue seru'd me to effectlesse vse. Now all the seruice I require of them, Is that the one will helpe to cut the other: 'Tis well Lauinia, that thou hast no hands, For hands to do Rome seruice, is but vaine

Luci. Speake gentle sister, who hath martyr'd thee? Mar. O that delightfull engine of her thoughts, That blab'd them with such pleasing eloquence, Is torne from forth that pretty hollow cage, Where like a sweet mellodius bird it sung, Sweet varied notes inchanting euery eare

Luci. Oh say thou for her, Who hath done this deed? Marc. Oh thus I found her straying in the Parke, Seeking to hide herselfe as doth the Deare That hath receiude some vnrecuring wound

Tit. It was my Deare, And he that wounded her, Hath hurt me more, then had he kild me dead: For now I stand as one vpon a Rocke, Inuiron'd with a wildernesse of Sea. Who markes the waxing tide, Grow waue by waue, Expecting euer when some enuious surge, Will in his brinish bowels swallow him. This way to death my wretched sonnes are gone: Heere stands my other sonne, a banisht man, And heere my brother weeping at my woes. But that which giues my soule the greatest spurne, Is deere Lauinia, deerer then my soule. Had I but seene thy picture in this plight, It would haue madded me. What shall I doe? Now I behold thy liuely body so? Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy teares, Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyr'd thee: Thy husband he is dead, and for his death Thy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this. Looke Marcus, ah sonne Lucius looke on her: When I did name her brothers, then fresh teares Stood on her cheekes, as doth the hony dew, Vpon a gathred Lillie almost withered

Mar. Perchance she weepes because they kil'd her husband, Perchance because she knowes him innocent

Ti. If they did kill thy husband then be ioyfull, Because the law hath tane reuenge on them. No, no, they would not doe so foule a deede, Witnes the sorrow that their sister makes. Gentle Lauinia let me kisse thy lips, Or make some signes how I may do thee ease: Shall thy good Vncle, and thy brother Lucius, And thou and I sit round about some Fountaine, Looking all downewards to behold our cheekes How they are stain'd in meadowes, yet not dry With miery slime left on them by a flood: And in the Fountaine shall we gaze so long, Till the fresh taste be taken from that cleerenes, And made a brine pit with our bitter teares? Or shall we cut away our hands like thine? Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumbe shewes Passe the remainder of our hatefull dayes? What shall we doe? Let vs that haue our tongues Plot some deuise of further miseries To make vs wondred at in time to come

Lu. Sweet Father cease your teares, for at your griefe
See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps

Mar. Patience deere Neece, good Titus drie thine
eyes

Ti. Ah Marcus, Marcus, Brother well I wot, Thy napkin cannot drinke a teare of mine, For thou poore man hast drown'd it with thine owne

Lu. Ah my Lauinia I will wipe thy cheekes

Ti. Marke Marcus marke, I vnderstand her signes, Had she a tongue to speake, now would she say That to her brother which I said to thee. His Napkin with her true teares all bewet, Can do no seruice on her sorrowfull cheekes. Oh what a simpathy of woe is this! As farre from helpe as Limbo is from blisse, Enter Aron the Moore alone.

Moore. Titus Andronicus, my Lord the Emperour, Sends thee this word, that if thou loue thy sonnes, Let Marcus, Lucius, or thy selfe 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 sonnes aliue, And that shall be the ransome for their fault

Ti. Oh gracious Emperour, oh gentle Aaron. Did euer Rauen sing so like a Larke, That giues sweet tydings of the Sunnes vprise? With all my heart, Ile send the Emperour my hand, Good Aron wilt thou help to chop it off? Lu. Stay Father, for that noble hand of thine, That hath throwne downe so many enemies, Shall not be sent: my hand will serue the turne, My youth can better spare my blood then you, And therfore mine shall saue my brothers liues

Mar. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome, And rear'd aloft the bloody Battleaxe, Writing destruction on the enemies Castle? Oh none of both but are of high desert: My hand hath bin but idle, let it serue To ransome my two nephewes from their death, Then haue I kept it to a worthy end

Moore. Nay come agree, whose hand shall goe along
For feare they die before their pardon come

Mar. My hand shall goe

Lu. By heauen it shall not goe

Ti. Sirs striue no more, such withered hearbs as these
Are meete for plucking vp, and therefore mine

Lu. Sweet Father, if I shall be thought thy sonne,
Let me redeeme my brothers both from death

Mar. And for our fathers sake, and mothers care,
Now let me shew a brothers loue to thee

Ti. Agree betweene you, I will spare my hand

Lu. Then Ile goe fetch an Axe

Mar. But I will vse the Axe.

Exeunt.

Ti. Come hither Aaron, Ile deceiue them both, Lend me thy hand, and I will giue thee mine, Moore. If that be cal'd deceit, I will be honest, And neuer whil'st I liue deceiue men so: But Ile deceiue you in another sort, And that you'l say ere halfe an houre passe.

He cuts off Titus hand.

Enter Lucius and Marcus againe.

Ti. Now stay your strife, what shall be, is dispatcht: Good Aron giue his Maiestie 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 haue. As for my sonnes, say I account of them, As iewels purchast at an easie price, And yet deere too, because I bought mine owne

Aron. I goe Andronicus, and for thy hand, Looke by and by to haue thy sonnes with thee: Their heads I meane: Oh how this villany Doth fat me with the very thoughts of it. Let fooles doe good, and faire men call for grace, Aron will haue his soule blacke like his face. Enter.

Ti. O heere I lift this one hand vp to heauen, And bow this feeble ruine to the earth, If any power pitties wretched teares, To that I call: what wilt thou kneele with me? Doe then deare heart, for heauen shall heare our prayers, Or with our sighs weele breath the welkin dimme, And staine the Sun with fogge as somtime cloudes, When they do hug him in their melting bosomes

Mar. Oh brother speake with possibilities,
And do not breake into these deepe extreames

Ti. Is not my sorrow deepe, hauing no bottome?
Then be my passions bottomlesse with them

Mar. But yet let reason gouerne thy lament

Titus. If there were reason for these miseries, Then into limits could I binde my woes: When heauen doth weepe, doth not the earth oreflow? If the windes rage, doth not the Sea wax mad, Threatning the welkin with his big-swolne face? And wilt thou haue a reason for this coile? I am the Sea. Harke how her sighes doe flow: Shee is the weeping welkin, I the earth: Then must my Sea be moued with her sighes, Then must my earth with her continuall teares, Become a deluge: ouerflow'd and drown'd: For why, my bowels cannot hide her woes, But like a drunkard must I vomit them: Then giue me leaue, for loosers will haue leaue, To ease their stomackes 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 sentst the Emperour: Heere are the heads of thy two noble sonnes. And heeres thy hand in scorne to thee sent backe: Thy griefes, their sports: Thy resolution mockt, That woe is me to thinke vpon thy woes, More then remembrance of my fathers death. Enter.

Marc. Now let hot aetna coole in Cicilie, And be my heart an euer-burning hell: These miseries are more then may be borne. To weepe with them that weepe, doth ease some deale, But sorrow flouted at, is double death

Luci. Ah that this sight should make so deep a wound, And yet detested life not shrinke thereat: That euer death should let life beare his name, Where life hath no more interest but to breath

Mar. Alas poore hart that kisse is comfortlesse,
As frozen water to a starued snake

Titus. When will this fearefull slumber haue an end? Mar. Now farwell flatterie, die Andronicus, Thou dost not slumber, see thy two sons heads, Thy warlike hands, thy mangled daughter here: Thy other banisht sonnes with this deere sight Strucke pale and bloodlesse, and thy brother I, Euen like a stony Image, cold and numme. Ah now no more will I controule my griefes, Rent off thy siluer haire, thy other hand Gnawing with thy teeth, and be this dismall sight The closing vp of our most wretched eyes: Now is a time to storme, why art thou still? Titus. Ha, ha, ha, Mar. Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this houre

Ti. Why I haue not another teare to shed: Besides, this sorrow is an enemy, And would vsurpe vpon my watry eyes, And make them blinde with tributarie teares. Then which way shall I finde Reuenges Caue? For these two heads doe seeme to speake to me, And threat me, I shall neuer come to blisse, Till all these mischiefes be returned againe, Euen in their throats that haue committed them. Come let me see what taske I haue to doe, You heauie people, circle me about, That I may turne me to each one of you, And sweare vnto my soule to right your wrongs. The vow is made, come Brother take a head, And in this hand the other will I beare. And Lauinia thou shalt be employd in these things: Beare thou my hand sweet wench betweene thy teeth: As for thee boy, goe get thee from my sight, Thou art an Exile, and thou must not stay, Hie to the Gothes, and raise an army there, And if you loue me, as I thinke you doe, Let's kisse and part, for we haue much to doe.

Exeunt.

Manet Lucius.

Luci. Farewell Andronicus my noble Father: The woful'st man that euer liu'd in Rome: Farewell proud Rome, til Lucius come againe, He loues his pledges dearer then his life: Farewell Lauinia my noble sister, O would thou wert as thou to fore hast beene, But now, nor Lucius nor Lauinia liues But in obliuion and hateful griefes: If Lucius liue, he will requit your wrongs, And make proud Saturnine and his Empresse Beg at the gates like Tarquin and his Queene. Now will I to the Gothes and raise a power, To be reueng'd on Rome and Saturnine.

Exit Lucius

A Banket.

Enter Andronicus, Marcus, Lauinia, and the Boy.

An. So, so, now sit, and looke you eate no more Then will preserue iust so much strength in vs As will reuenge these bitter woes of ours. Marcus vnknit that sorrow-wreathen knot: Thy Neece and I (poore Creatures) want our hands And cannot passionate our tenfold griefe, With foulded Armes. This poore right hand of mine, Is left to tirranize vppon my breast. Who when my hart all mad with misery, Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh, Then thus I thumpe it downe. Thou Map of woe, that thus dost talk in signes, When thy poore hart beates without ragious beating, Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still? Wound it with sighing girle, kil it with grones: Or get some little knife betweene thy teeth, And iust against thy hart make thou a hole, That all the teares that thy poore eyes let fall May run into that sinke, and soaking in, Drowne the lamenting foole, in Sea salt teares

Mar. Fy brother fy, teach her not thus to lay
Such violent hands vppon her tender life

An. How now! Has sorrow made thee doate already? Why Marcus, no man should be mad but I: What violent hands can she lay on her life: Ah, wherefore dost thou vrge the name of hands, To bid Aeneas tell the tale twice ore How Troy was burnt, and he made miserable? O handle not the theame, to talke of hands, Least we remember still that we haue none, Fie, fie, how Frantiquely I square my talke As if we should forget we had no hands: If Marcus did not name the word of hands. Come, lets fall too, and gentle girle eate this, Heere is no drinke? Harke Marcus what she saies, I can interpret all her martir'd signes, She saies, she drinkes no other drinke but teares Breu'd with her sorrow: mesh'd vppon her cheekes, Speechlesse complayner, I will learne thy thought: In thy dumb action, will I be as perfect As begging Hermits in their holy prayers. Thou shalt not sighe nor hold thy stumps to heauen, Nor winke, nor nod, nor kneele, nor make a signe; But I (of these) will wrest an Alphabet, And by still practice, learne to know thy meaning

Boy. Good grandsire leaue these bitter deepe laments,
Make my Aunt merry, with some pleasing tale

Mar. Alas, the tender boy in passion mou'd,
Doth weepe to see his grandsires heauinesse

An. Peace tender Sapling, thou art made of teares,
And teares will quickly melt thy life away.

Marcus strikes the dish with a knife.

What doest thou strike at Marcus with knife

Mar. At that that I haue kil'd my Lord, a Fly An. Out on the murderour: thou kil'st my hart, Mine eyes cloi'd with view of Tirranie: A deed of death done on the Innocent Becoms not Titus brother: get thee gone, I see thou art not for my company

Mar. Alas (my Lord) I haue but kild a flie

An. But? How: if that Flie had a father and mother? How would he hang his slender gilded wings And buz lamenting doings in the ayer, Poore harmelesse Fly, That with his pretty buzing melody, Came heere to make vs merry, And thou hast kil'd him

Mar. Pardon me sir, It was a blacke illfauour'd Fly, Like to the Empresse Moore, therefore I kild him

An. O, o, o, Then pardon me for reprehending thee, For thou hast done a Charitable deed: Giue me thy knife, I will insult on him, Flattering my selfe, as if it were the Moore, Come hither purposely to poyson me. There's for thy selfe, and thats for Tamora: Ah sirra, Yet I thinke we are not brought so low, But that betweene vs, we can kill a Fly, That comes in likenesse of a Cole-blacke Moore

Mar. Alas poore man, griefe ha's so wrought on him,
He takes false shadowes, for true substances

An. Come, take away: Lauinia, goe with me, Ile to thy closset, and goe read with thee Sad stories, chanced in the times of old. Come boy, and goe with me, thy sight is young, And thou shalt read, when mine begin to dazell.

Exeunt.

Actus Quartus.

Enter young Lucius and Lauinia running after him, and the Boy flies from her with his bookes vnder his arme. Enter Titus and Marcus.

Boy. Helpe Gransier helpe, my Aunt Lauinia, Followes me euery where I know not why. Good Vncle Marcus see how swift she comes, Alas sweet Aunt, I know not what you meane

Mar. Stand by me Lucius, doe not feare thy Aunt

Titus. She loues thee boy too well to doe thee harme
Boy. I when my father was in Rome she did

Mar. What meanes my Neece Lauinia by these signes? Ti. Feare not Lucius, somewhat doth she meane: See Lucius see, how much she makes of thee: Some whether would she haue thee goe with her. Ah boy, Cornelia neuer with more care Read to her sonnes, then she hath read to thee, Sweet Poetry, and Tullies Oratour: Canst thou not gesse wherefore she plies thee thus? Boy. My Lord I know not I, nor can I gesse, Vnlesse some fit or frenzie do possesse her: For I haue heard my Gransier say full oft, Extremitie of griefes would make men mad. And I haue read that Hecuba of Troy, Ran mad through sorrow, that made me to feare, Although my Lord, I know my noble Aunt, Loues me as deare as ere my mother did, And would not but in fury fright my youth, Which made me downe to throw my bookes, and flie Causles perhaps, but pardon me sweet Aunt, And Madam, if my Vncle Marcus goe, I will most willingly attend your Ladyship

Mar. Lucius I will

Ti. How now Lauinia, Marcus what meanes this? Some booke there is that she desires to see, Which is it girle of these? Open them boy, But thou art deeper read and better skild, Come and take choyse of all my Library, And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heauens Reueale the damn'd contriuer of this deed. What booke? Why lifts she vp her armes in sequence thus? Mar. I thinke she meanes that ther was more then one Confederate in the fact, I more there was: Or else to heauen she heaues them to reuenge

Ti. Lucius what booke is that she tosseth so?
Boy. Grandsier 'tis Ouids Metamorphosis,
My mother gaue it me

Mar. For loue of her that's gone,
Perhaps she culd it from among the rest

Ti. Soft, so busily she turnes the leaues, Helpe her, what would she finde? Lauinia shall I read? This is the tragicke tale of Philomel? And treates of Tereus treason and his rape, And rape I feare was roote of thine annoy

Mar. See brother see, note how she quotes the leaues Ti. Lauinia, wert thou thus surpriz'd sweet girle, Rauisht and wrong'd as Philomela was? Forc'd in the ruthlesse, vast, and gloomy woods? See, see, I such a place there is where we did hunt, (O had we neuer, neuer hunted there) Patern'd by that the Poet heere describes, By nature made for murthers and for rapes

Mar. O why should nature build so foule a den, Vnlesse the Gods delight in tragedies? Ti. Giue signes sweet girle, for heere are none but friends What Romaine Lord it was durst do the deed? Or slunke not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst, That left the Campe to sinne in Lucrece bed

Mar. Sit downe sweet Neece, brother sit downe by me, Appollo, Pallas, Ioue, or Mercury, Inspire me that I may this treason finde. My Lord looke heere, looke heere Lauinia.

He writes his Name with his staffe, and guides it with feete and mouth.

This sandie plot is plaine, guide if thou canst This after me, I haue writ my name, Without the helpe of any hand at all. Curst be that hart that forc'st vs to that shift: Write thou good Neece, and heere display at last, What God will haue discouered for reuenge, Heauen guide thy pen to print thy sorrowes plaine, That we may know the Traytors and the truth.

She takes the staffe in her mouth, and guides it with her stumps and writes.

Ti. Oh doe ye read my Lord what she hath writ?
Stuprum, Chiron, Demetrius

Mar. What, what, the lustfull sonnes of Tamora, Performers of this hainous bloody deed? Ti. Magni Dominator poli, Tam lentus audis scelera, tam lentus vides? Mar. Oh calme thee gentle Lord: Although I know There is enough written vpon this earth, To stirre a mutinie in the mildest thoughts, And arme the mindes of infants to exclaimes. My Lord kneele downe with me: Lauinia kneele, And kneele sweet boy, the Romaine Hectors hope, And sweare with me, as with the wofull Feere And father of that chast dishonoured Dame, Lord Iunius Brutus sweare for Lucrece rape, That we will prosecute (by good aduise) Mortall reuenge vpon these traytorous Gothes, And see their blood, or die with this reproach

Ti. Tis sure enough, and you knew how. But if you hunt these Beare-whelpes, then beware The Dam will wake, and if she winde you once, Shee's with the Lyon deepely still in league. And lulls him whilst she playeth on her backe, And when he sleepes will she do what she list. You are a young huntsman Marcus, let it alone: And come, I will goe get a leafe of brasse, And with a Gad of steele will write these words, And lay it by: the angry Northerne winde Will blow these sands like Sibels leaues abroad, And wheres your lesson then. Boy what say you? Boy. I say my Lord, that if I were a man, Their mothers bed-chamber should not be safe, For these bad bond-men to the yoake of Rome

Mar. I that's my boy, thy father hath full oft,
For his vngratefull country done the like

Boy. And Vncle so will I, and if I liue

Ti. Come goe with me into mine Armorie, Lucius Ile fit thee, and withall, my boy Shall carry from me to the Empresse sonnes, Presents that I intend to send them both, Come, come, thou'lt do thy message, wilt thou not? Boy. I with my dagger in their bosomes Grandsire: Ti. No boy not so, Ile teach thee another course, Lauinia come, Marcus looke to my house, Lucius and Ile goe braue it at the Court, I marry will we sir, and weele be waited on.

Exeunt.

Mar. O heauens! Can you heare a good man grone And not relent, or not compassion him? Marcus attend him in his extasie, That hath more scars of sorrow in his heart, Then foe-mens markes vpon his batter'd shield, But yet so iust, that he will not reuenge, Reuenge the heauens for old Andronicus.

Exit

Enter Aron, Chiron and Demetrius at one dore: and at another dore young Lucius and another, with a bundle of weapons, and verses writ vpon them.

Chi. Demetrius heeres the sonne of Lucius,
He hath some message to deliuer vs

Aron. I some mad message from his mad Grandfather

Boy. My Lords, with all the humblenesse I may, I greete your honours from Andronicus, And pray the Romane Gods confound you both

Deme. Gramercie louely Lucius, what's the newes? For villanie's markt with rape. May it please you, My Grandsire well aduis'd hath sent by me, The goodliest weapons of his Armorie, To gratifie your honourable youth, The hope of Rome, for so he bad me say: And so I do and with his gifts present Your Lordships, when euer you haue need, You may be armed and appointed well, And so I leaue you both: like bloody villaines.

Exit

Deme. What's heere? a scrole, & written round about? Let's see. Integer vitæ scelerisque purus, non egit maury iaculis nec arcus

Chi. O 'tis a verse in Horace, I know it well.
I read it in the Grammer long agoe

Moore. I iust, a verse in Horace: right, you haue it, Now what a thing it is to be an Asse? Heer's no sound iest, the old man hath found their guilt, And sends the weapons wrapt about with lines, That wound (beyond their feeling) to the quick: But were our witty Empresse well a foot, She would applaud Andronicus conceit: But let her rest, in her vnrest a while. And now young Lords, was't not a happy starre Led vs to Rome strangers, and more then so; Captiues, to be aduanced to this height? It did me good before the Pallace gate, To braue the Tribune in his brothers hearing

Deme. But me more good, to see so great a Lord
Basely insinuate, and send vs gifts

Moore. Had he not reason Lord Demetrius?
Did you not vse his daughter very friendly?
Deme. I would we had a thousand Romane Dames
At such a bay, by turne to serue our lust

Chi. A charitable wish, and full of loue

Moore. Heere lack's but your mother for to say, Amen

Chi. And that would she for twenty thousand more

Deme. Come, let vs go, and pray to all the Gods
For our beloued mother in her paines

Moore. Pray to the deuils, the gods haue giuen vs ouer.

Flourish.

Dem. Why do the Emperors trumpets flourish thus?
Chi. Belike for ioy the Emperour hath a sonne

Deme. Soft, who comes heere?
Enter Nurse with a blacke a Moore childe.

Nur. Good morrow Lords:
O tell me, did you see Aaron the Moore?
Aron. Well, more or lesse, or nere a whit at all,
Heere Aaron is, and what with Aaron now?
Nurse. Oh gentle Aaron, we are all vndone.
Now helpe, or woe betide thee euermore

Aron. Why, what a catterwalling dost thou keepe? What dost thou wrap and fumble in thine armes? Nurse. O that which I would hide from heauens eye, Our Empresse shame, and stately Romes disgrace, She is deliuered Lords, she is deliuered

Aron. To whom?
Nurse. I meane she is brought a bed?
Aron. Wel God giue her good rest,
What hath he sent her?
Nurse. A deuill

Aron. Why then she is the Deuils Dam: a ioyfull issue

Nurse. A ioylesse, dismall, blacke &, sorrowfull issue, Heere is the babe as loathsome as a toad, Among'st the fairest breeders of our clime, The Empresse sends it thee, thy stampe, thy seale, And bids thee christen it with thy daggers point

Aron. Out you whore, is black so base a hue?
Sweet blowse, you are a beautious blossome sure

Deme. Villaine what hast thou done?
Aron. That which thou canst not vndoe

Chi. Thou hast vndone our mother

Deme. And therein hellish dog, thou hast vndone, Woe to her chance, and damn'd her loathed choyce, Accur'st the off-spring of so foule a fiend

Chi. It shall not liue

Aron. It shall not die

Nurse. Aaron it must, the mother wils it so

Aron. What, must it Nurse? Then let no man but I
Doe execution on my flesh and blood

Deme. Ile broach the Tadpole on my Rapiers point:
Nurse giue it me, my sword shall soone dispatch it

Aron. Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels vp. Stay murtherous villaines, will you kill your brother? Now by the burning Tapers of the skie, That shone so brightly when this Boy was got, He dies vpon my Semitars sharpe point, That touches this my first borne sonne and heire. I tell you younglings, not Enceladus With all his threatning band of Typhons broode, Nor great Alcides, nor the God of warre, Shall ceaze this prey out of his fathers hands: What, what, ye sanguine shallow harted Boyes, Ye white-limb'd walls, ye Ale-house painted signes, Cole-blacke is better then another hue, In that it scornes to beare another hue: For all the water in the Ocean, Can neuer turne the Swans blacke legs to white, Although she laue them hourely in the flood: Tell the Empresse from me, I am of age To keepe mine owne, excuse it how she can Deme. Wilt thou betray thy noble mistris thus? Aron. My mistris is my mistris: this my selfe, The vigour, and the picture of my youth: This, before all the world do I preferre, This mauger all the world will I keepe safe, Or some of you shall smoake for it in Rome

Deme. By this our mother is for euer sham'd

Chi. Rome will despise her for this foule escape

Nur. The Emperour in his rage will doome her death

Chi. I blush to thinke vpon this ignominie

Aron. Why ther's the priuiledge your beauty beares: Fie trecherous hue, that will betray with blushing The close enacts and counsels of the hart: Heer's a young Lad fram'd of another leere, Looke how the blacke slaue smiles vpon the father; As who should say, old Lad I am thine owne. He is your brother Lords, sensibly fed Of that selfe blood that first gaue life to you, And from that wombe where you imprisoned were He is infranchised and come to light: Nay he is your brother by the surer side, Although my seale be stamped in his face

Nurse. Aaron what shall I say vnto the Empresse?
Dem. Aduise thee Aaron, what is to be done,
And we will all subscribe to thy aduise:
Saue thou the child, so we may all be safe

Aron. Then sit we downe and let vs all consult. My sonne and I will haue the winde of you: Keepe there, now talke at pleasure of your safety

Deme. How many women saw this childe of his? Aron. Why so braue Lords, when we ioyne in league I am a Lambe: but if you braue the Moore, The chafed Bore, the mountaine Lyonesse, The Ocean swells not so as Aaron stormes: But say againe, how many saw the childe? Nurse. Cornelia, the midwife, and my selfe, And none else but the deliuered Empresse

Aron. The Empresse, the Midwife, and your selfe, Two may keepe counsell, when the third's away: Goe to the Empresse, tell her this I said,

He kils her

Weeke, weeke, so cries a Pigge prepared to th' spit

Deme. What mean'st thou Aron? Wherefore did'st thou this? Aron. O Lord sir, 'tis a deed of pollicie? Shall she liue to betray this guilt of our's: A long tongu'd babling Gossip? No Lords no: And now be it knowne to you my full intent. Not farre, one Muliteus my Country-man His wife but yesternight was brought to bed, His childe is like to her, faire as you are: Goe packe with them, and giue the mother gold, And tell them both the circumstance of all, And how by this their Childe shall be aduaunc'd, And be receiued for the Emperours heyre, And substituted in the place of mine, To calme this tempest whirling in the Court, And let the Emperour dandle him for his owne, Harke ye Lords, ye see I haue giuen her physicke, And you must needs bestow her funerall, The fields are neere, and you are gallant Groomes: This done, see that you take no longer daies 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 ayre with secrets

Deme. For this care of Tamora,
Her selfe, and hers are highly bound to thee.

Exeunt

Aron. Now to the Gothes, as swift as Swallow flies, There to dispose this treasure in mine armes, And secretly to greete the Empresse friends: Come on you thick-lipt-slaue, Ile beare you hence, For it is you that puts vs to our shifts: Ile make you feed on berries, and on rootes, And feed on curds and whay, and sucke the Goate, And cabbin in a Caue, and bring you vp To be a warriour, and command a Campe.

Exit

Enter Titus, old Marcus, young Lucius, and other gentlemen with bowes, and Titus beares the arrowes with Letters on the end of them.

Tit. Come Marcus, come, kinsmen this is the way. Sir Boy let me see your Archerie, Looke yee draw home enough, and 'tis there straight: Terras Astrea reliquit, be you remembred Marcus. She's gone, she's fled, sirs take you to your tooles, You Cosens shall goe sound the Ocean: And cast your nets, haply you may find her in the Sea, Yet ther's as little iustice as at Land: No Publius and Sempronius, you must doe it, 'Tis you must dig with Mattocke, and with Spade, And pierce the inmost Center of the earth: Then when you come to Plutoes Region, I pray you deliuer him this petition, Tell him it is for iustice, and for aide, And that it comes from old Andronicus, Shaken with sorrowes in vngratefull Rome. Ah Rome! Well, well, I made thee miserable, What time I threw the peoples suffrages On him that thus doth tyrannize ore me. Goe get you gone, and pray be carefull all, And leaue you not a man of warre vnsearcht, This wicked Emperour may haue shipt her hence, And kinsmen then we may goe pipe for iustice

Marc. O Publius is not this a heauie case To see thy Noble Vnckle thus distract? Publ. Therefore my Lords it highly vs concernes, By day and night t' attend him carefully: And feede his humour kindely as we may, Till time beget some carefull remedie

Marc. Kinsmen, his sorrowes are past remedie. Ioyne with the Gothes, and with reuengefull warre, Take wreake on Rome for this ingratitude, And vengeance on the Traytor Saturnine

Tit. Publius how now? how now my Maisters? What haue you met with her? Publ. No my good Lord, but Pluto sends you word, If you will haue reuenge from hell you shall, Marrie for iustice she is so imploy'd, He thinkes with Ioue in heauen, or some where else: So that perforce you must needs stay a time

Tit. He doth me wrong to feed me with delayes, Ile diue into the burning Lake below, And pull her out of Acaron by the heeles. Marcus we are but shrubs, no Cedars we, No big-bon'd-men, fram'd of the Cyclops size, But mettall Marcus steele to the very backe, Yet wrung with wrongs more then our backe can beare: And sith there's no iustice in earth nor hell, We will sollicite heauen, and moue the Gods To send downe Iustice for to wreake our wrongs: Come to this geare, you are a good Archer Marcus.

He giues them the Arrowes.

Ad Iouem, that's for you: here ad Appollonem, Ad Martem, that's for my selfe, Heere Boy to Pallas, heere to Mercury, To Saturnine, to Caius, not to Saturnine, You were as good to shoote against the winde. Too it Boy, Marcus loose when I bid: Of my word, I haue written to effect, Ther's not a God left vnsollicited

Marc. Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the Court,
We will afflict the Emperour in his pride

Tit. Now Maisters draw, Oh well said Lucius:
Good Boy in Virgoes lap, giue it Pallas

Marc. My Lord, I aime a Mile beyond the Moone,
Your letter is with Iupiter by this

Tit. Ha, ha, Publius, Publius, what hast thou done?
See, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus hornes

Mar. This was the sport my Lord, when Publius shot, The Bull being gal'd, gaue Aries such a knocke, That downe fell both the Rams hornes in the Court, And who should finde them but the Empresse villaine: She laught, and told the Moore he should not choose But giue them to his Maister for a present

Tit. Why there it goes, God giue your Lordship ioy.
Enter the Clowne with a basket and two Pigeons in it.

Titus. Newes, newes, from heauen, Marcus the poast is come. Sirrah, what tydings? haue you any letters? Shall I haue Iustice, what sayes Iupiter? Clowne. Ho the Iibbetmaker, he sayes that he hath taken them downe againe, for the man must not be hang'd till the next weeke

Tit. But what sayes Iupiter I aske thee?
Clowne. Alas sir I know not Iupiter:
I neuer dranke with him in all my life

Tit. Why villaine art not thou the Carrier?
Clowne. I of my Pigions sir, nothing else

Tit. Why, did'st thou not come from heauen? Clowne. From heauen? Alas sir, I neuer came there, God forbid I should be so bold, to presse to heauen in my young dayes. Why I am going with my pigeons to the Tribunall Plebs, to take vp a matter of brawle, betwixt my Vncle, and one of the Emperialls men

Mar. Why sir, that is as fit as can be to serue for your Oration, and let him deliuer the Pigions to the Emperour from you

Tit. Tell mee, can you deliuer an Oration to the Emperour
with a Grace?
Clowne. Nay truely sir, I could neuer say grace in all
my life