If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me;
If I do wake, fome planet ftrike me down,
That I may flumber in eternal fleep!

Speak, gentle niece, what ftern ungentle hands
Have lopp'd, and hew'd, and made thy body bare
Of her two branches, thofe fweet ornaments,
Whofe circling fhadows Kings have fought to fleep in,
And might not gain fo great a happiness,

As have thy love? why doft not speak to me?
Alas, a crimson river of warm blood,

Like to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind,
Doth rife and fall between thy rofie lips,
Coming and going with thy honey breath.
But fure fome Tereus hath defloured thee,

And left thou fhou'dft detect him, cut thy tongue.
Ah, now thou turn'ft away thy face for fhame:
And notwithstanding all this lofs of blood,
(As from a conduit with three iffuing spouts)
Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face,
Blushing to be encountred with a cloud.
Shall I fpeak for thee? fhall I fay, 'tis fo?
Oh that I knew thy heart, and knew the beaft,
That I might rail at him to ease my mind!
Sorrow concealed, like an oven ftopt,
Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.
Fair Philomela, fhe but loft her tongue,
And in a tedious fampler few'd her mind.
But lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee;
A craftier Tereus haft thou met withal,
And he hath cut thofe pretty fingers off
That could have better few'd than Philomel.
Or had the monster feen those lilly hands
Tremble, like afpen leaves, upon a lute,
And make the filken ftrings delight to kiss them,
He would not then have touch'd them for his life.
Or had he heard the heav'nly harmony,

Which that sweet tongue of thine hath often made,
He would have dropt his knife, and fall'n asleep,
As Cerberus at the Thracian poet's feet.

Come, let us go, and make thy father blind;

For

For fuch a fight will blind a father's eye.
One hour's ftorm will drown the fragrant meads,
What will whole months of tears thy father's eyes?
Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee:
Oh could our mourning ease thy misery!

[Exeunt.

Enter the Judges and Senators, with Marcus and Quintus bound, paffing on the Stage to the place of Execution, and Titus going before, pleading.

Tit.

H

EAR me, grave fathers, noble Tribunes, ftay,
For pity of mine age, whofe youth was spent
In dangerous wars, whilft you fecurely flept:
For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel fhed,
For all the frofty nights that I have watcht,
And for thefe bitter tears, which you now fee
Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks,
Be pitiful to my condemned fons,

Whofe fouls are not corrupted, as 'tis thought.
For two and twenty fons I never wept,

Because they died in honour's lofty bed.

[Andronicus lyeth down, and the judges pass by bim.

For thefe, thefe, Tribunes, in the duft I write
My heart's deep languor, and my foul's fad tears:
Let my tears ftanch the earth's dry appetite,

My fon's fweet blood will make it thame and blush :
O earth! I will befriend thee more with rain,
That fhall diftil from these two ancient urns,
Than youthful April fhall with all his showers;
In fummer's drought I'll drop upon thee ftill,
In winter with warm tears I'll melt the snow,
And keep eternal fpring-time on thy face,
So thou refuse to drink my dear fons blood.

Enter Lucius with his fword drawn.
O reverend Tribunes! gentle aged men!
Unbind my fons, reverse the doom of death,
And let me fay (that never wept before)
My tears are now prevailing orators.

Luc. Oh noble father, you lament in vain,
VOL. VIII.

D

[Exeunt

The

The Tribunes hear you not, no man is by,
And you recount your forrows to a stone.

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

Luc. My gracious Lord, no Tribune hears you speak.
Tit. Why, 'tis no matter, man; if they did hear,
They would not mark me: or if they did mark,
They would not pity me.

Therefore I tell my forrows to the ftones,
Who, tho' they cannot anfwer my distress,
Yet in fome fort are better than the Tribunes,
For that they will not intercept my tale;
When I do weep, they humbly at my feet
Receive my tears, and feem to weep with me;
And were they but attired in grave weeds,
Rome could afford no Tribune like to thefe.

A ftone is as foft wax, Tribunes more hard than ftones :
A ftone is filent, and offendeth not,

And Tribunes with their tongues doom men to death.
But wherefore ftand'st thou with thy weapon drawn?
Luc. To refcue my two brothers from their death;
For which attempt, the judges have pronounc'd
My everlasting doom of banishment.

Ti. O happy man, they have befriended thee:
Why, foolish Lucius, doft thou not perceive,
That Rome is but a wilderness of tygers?
Tygers muft prey, and Rome affords no prey
But me and mine; how happy art thou then,
From thefe devourers to be banished?

But who comes with our brother Marcus here?

SCENE II. Enter Marcus and Lavinia,
Mar. Titus, prepare thy noble eyes to weep,
Or if not fo, thy noble heart to break :

I bring confuming forrow to thine age.

Tit. Will it confume me? let me fee it then.
Mar. This was thy daughter.

Tit. Why, Marcus, fo fhe is.
Luc. Ah me, this object kills me.
Tit. Faint-hearted boy, arife and look
Speik, my Lavinia, what accurfed hand

upon her

-Hath

Hath made thee handless, in thy father's spight:
What fool hath added water to the fea?
Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy?
My grief was at the height before thou cam'ft,
And now like Nilus it difdaineth bounds:
Give me a fword, I'll chop off my hands too,
For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain
And they have nurs'd this wce, in feeding life:
In bootlefs prayer have they been held up,
And they have ferv'd me to effectlefs ufe
Now all the fervice I require of them,
Is that the one will help to cut the other:
'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou haft no hands,
For hands to do Rome fervice are but vain.

Luc. Speak, gentle fifter, who hath martyr'd thee?
Mar, O that delightful engine of her thoughts,
That blab'd them with fuch pleafing eloquence,
Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage,
Where like a fweet melodious bird it fung
Sweet various notes, inchanting every ear.

Luc. Oh fay thou for her, who hath done this deed? Mar. Oh thus I found her ftraying in the park, Seeking to hide her felf, as doth the deer

That hath receiv'd fome unrecuring wound.

Tit. It was my deer, and he that wounded her
Hath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead :
For now I ftand, as one upon a rock,
Environ'd with a wilderness of fea,

Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave,
Expecting ever when fome envious furge
Will in his brinish bowels fwallow him.
This way to death my wretched fons are gone:
Here ftands my other fon, a banish'd man,
And here my brother weeping at my woes.
But that which gives my foul the greatest spurn
Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my foul
Had I but feen thy picture in this plight,
It would have madded me. What fhall I do,
Now I behold thy lively body fo?

Thou haft 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, fon 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 lilly almost wither'd.

Mar. Perchance the weeps because they kill'd her husband, Perchance because she knows them innocent.

Tit. If they did kill thy hufband, then be joyful,
Because the law hath ta'en revenge on them.

No, no, they would not do fo foul a deed,
Witness the forrow that their fifter makes.
Gentle Lavinia, let me kifs thy lips,

Or make fome figns how I may do thee eafe:
Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius,
And thou and I fit round about fome fountain,
Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks,
How they are ftain'd like meadows yet not dry
With miry flime left on them by a flood?
And in the fountain fhall we gaze fo long,
'Till the fresh tafte be taken from that clearness,
And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears?
Or fhall we cut away our hands like thine?
Or fhall we bite our tongues, and in dumb fhews
Pafs the remainder of our hateful days?
What fhall we do? let us that have our tongues
Plot fome device of further mifery,

To make us wondred at in time to come.

Luc. Sweet father, ceafe your tears, for at your grief See how my wretched fifter fobs and weeps.

Mar. Patience, dear neice; 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, haft drown'd it with thine own.
Luc. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.
Tit. Mark, Marcus; mark, I understand her figns;
Had fhe a tongue to fpeak, now would the fay
That to her brother which I faid to thee

His napkin with his true tears all bewet,

Can