Who, though they cannot answer my distress, unes, For that they will not intercept my tale: 40 When I do weep, they humbly at my feet A stone is silent and offendeth not, And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death. [Rises. But wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawn? Luc. To rescue my two brothers from their death: Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive 51 But who comes with our brother Marcus here? Enter Marcus and Lavinia. Marc. Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep; 60 Tit. Why, Marcus, so she is. Luc. Aye me, this object kills me! Tit. Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her. Hath made thee handless in thy father's sight? Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy? 70 And now, like Nilus, it disdaineth bounds. And they have nursed this woe, in feeding life; 'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands; For hands to do Rome service is but vain. 80 Luc. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr'd 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, 67. "sight"; Theobald, "spight.”—I. G. 86. "Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear"; Collier MS. reads "Rich varied notes, enchanting old and young"; F. 4, “Sweet various .," etc.-I. G. Seeking to hide herself, as doth the deer That hath received some unrecuring wound. 90 Tit. It was my dear; and he that wounded her Hath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead: Environ'd with a wilderness of sea; Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, Expecting ever when some envious surge spurn, Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul. 100 Thou hast no hands, to wipe away thy tears; 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. 120 No, no, they would not do so foul a deed; Looking all downwards, to behold our cheeks Till the fresh taste be taken from that clear ness, And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears? 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, 140 For thou, poor man, hast drown'd it with thine own. Luc. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks. 125. “as”; the reading of Collier, from Collier MS. and Long MS.; Qq., Ff., "in"; Rowe, "like."-I. G. Tit. Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs: As far from help as Limbo is from bliss! Enter Aaron. 150 Aar. Titus Andronicus, my lord the emperor Did ever raven sing so like a lark, That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise? Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off? That hath thrown down so many enemies, 160 Shall not be sent: my hand will serve the turn: lives. Marc. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome, And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-ax, Writing destruction on the enemy's castle? 170 |