ページの画像
PDF
ePub

Who, though they cannot answer my distress,
Yet in some sort they are better than the trib-

unes,

For that they will not intercept my tale:

40

When I do weep, they humbly at my feet
Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me;
And, were they but attired in grave weeds,
Rome could afford no tribune like to these.
A stone is soft as wax, tribunes more hard than
stones;

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:
For which attempt the judges have pronounced
My everlasting doom of banishment.
Tit. O happy man! they have befriended thee.

Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive
That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers?
Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey
But me and mine: how happy art thou then,
From these devourers to be banished!

51

But who comes with our brother Marcus here?

Enter Marcus and Lavinia.

Marc. Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep;
Or, if not so, thy noble heart to break:
I bring consuming sorrow to thine age.
Tit. Will it consume me? let me see it then.
Marc. This was thy daughter.

60

Tit.

Why, Marcus, so she is.

Luc. Aye 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-
est;

70

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 nursed this woe, in feeding life;
In bootless prayer have they been held up,
And they have served 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. 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:
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?

100

Thou hast no hands, to wipe away thy tears;
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.
Look, Marcus! ah, son Lucius, look on her! 110
When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears
Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew
Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd.

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;
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 foun-
tain,

Looking all downwards, to behold our cheeks
How they are stain'd, as 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 clear

ness,

And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears?
Or shall we cut away our hands, like thine? 130
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,

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:
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.

150

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,

160

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-ax,

Writing destruction on the enemy's castle? 170

« 前へ次へ »