Complete Plays, The Page 5

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!

  Lucius

  O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed?

  Marcus Andronicus

  O, thus I found her, straying in the park,

  Seeking to hide herself, as doth the deer

  That hath received some unrecuring wound.

  Titus Andronicus

  It was my deer; and he that wounded her

  Hath hurt me more than had he killed me dead:

  For now I stand as one upon a rock

  Environed 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 banished 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 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!

  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.

  Marcus Andronicus

  Perchance she weeps because they kill’d her husband;

  Perchance because she knows them innocent.

  Titus Andronicus

  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, 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 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 deuce of further misery,

  To make us wonder’d at in time to come.

  Lucius

  Sweet father, cease your tears; for, at your grief,

  See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps.

  Marcus Andronicus

  Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine eyes.

  Titus Andronicus

  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.

  Lucius

  Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.

  Titus Andronicus

  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

  Aaron

  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.

  Titus Andronicus

  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?

  Lucius

  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.

  Marcus Andronicus

  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.

  Aaron

  Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along,

  For fear they die before their pardon come.

  Marcus Andronicus

  My hand shall go.

  Lucius

  By heaven, it shall not go!

  Titus Andronicus

  Sirs, strive no more: such wither’d herbs as these

  Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.

  Lucius

  Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son,

  Let me redeem my brothers both from death.

  Marcus Andronicus

  And, for our father’s sake and mother’s care,

  Now let me show a brother’s love to thee.

  Titus Andronicus

  Agree between you; I will spare my hand.

  Lucius

  Then I’ll go fetch an axe.

  Marcus Andronicus

  But I will use the axe.

  Exeunt Lucius and Marcus

  Titus Andronicus

  Come hither, Aaron; I’ll deceive them both:

  Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine.

  Aaron

  [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.

  Cuts off Titus’s hand

  Re-enter Lucius and Marcus

  Titus Andronicus

  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 purchased at an easy price;

  And yet dear too, because I bought mine own.

  Aaron

  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 villany

  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

  Titus Andronicus

  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!

  T
o Lavinia

  What, wilt 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.

  Marcus Andronicus

  O brother, speak with possibilities,

  And do not break into these deep extremes.

  Titus Andronicus

  Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom?

  Then be my passions bottomless with them.

  Marcus Andronicus

  But yet let reason govern thy lament.

  Titus Andronicus

  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,

  Threatening the welkin with his big-swoln face?

  And wilt thou have a reason for this coil?

  I am the sea; hark, how her sighs do 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

  Messenger

  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 griefs their sports, thy resolution mock’d;

  That woe is me to think upon thy woes

  More than remembrance of my father’s death.

  Exit

  Marcus Andronicus

  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.

  Lucius

  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

  Marcus Andronicus

  Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless

  As frozen water to a starved snake.

  Titus Andronicus

  When will this fearful slumber have an end?

  Marcus Andronicus

  Now, farewell, flattery: 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:

  Rend 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?

  Titus Andronicus

  Ha, ha, ha!

  Marcus Andronicus

  Why dost thou laugh? it fits not with this hour.

  Titus Andronicus

  Why, I have not another tear to shed:

  Besides, this sorrow is an enemy,

  And would usurp upon my watery 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 have 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 I will bear.

  Lavinia, thou shalt be employ’d: these arms!

  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 you love me, as I think you do,

  Let’s kiss and part, for we have much to do.

  Exeunt Titus, Marcus, and Lavinia

  Lucius

  Farewell Andronicus, my noble father,

  The wofull’st man that ever lived in Rome:

  Farewell, proud Rome; till Lucius come again,

  He leaves 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 empress

  Beg at the gates, like Tarquin and his queen.

  Now will I to the Goths, and raise a power,

  To be revenged on Rome and Saturnine.

  Exit

  SCENE II. A ROOM IN TITUS’S HOUSE. A BANQUET SET OUT.

  Enter Titus, Marcus, Lavinia and Young Lucius, a boy

  Titus Andronicus

  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.

  Marcus Andronicus

  Fie, brother, fie! teach her not thus to lay

  Such violent hands upon her tender life.

  Titus Andronicus

  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 complainer, 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 practise learn to know thy meaning.

  Young Lucius

  Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments:

  Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.

  Marcus Andronicus

  Alas, the tender boy, in passion moved,

  Doth weep to see his grandsire’s heaviness.

  Titus Andronicus

  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?

  Marcus Andronicus

  At that that I have kill’d, my lord; a fly.

  Titus Andronicus

  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.

  Marcus Andronicus

  Alas, my lord, I have but kill’d a fly.

  Titus Andronicus

  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.

  Marcus Andronicus

  Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favor’d fly,

  Like to the empress’ Moor; therefore I kill’d him.

  Titus Andronicus

  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.

  Marcus Andronicus

  Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on him,

  He takes false shadows for true substances.

  Titus Andronicus

  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