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And wonder greatly, that man's face can fold

In pleasing smiles fuch murderous tyranny.

SAT. [Reads.] An if we miss to meet him handsomely,— Sweet buntfman, Baffianus 'tis, we mean,—

Do thou fo much as dig the grave for him;

Thou know'ft our meaning: Look for thy reward
Among the nettles at the elder-tree,

Which overshades the mouth of that fame pit,
Where we decreed to bury Baffianus.
Do this, and purchase us thy lafting friends.
O, Tamora! was ever heard the like?
This is the pit, and this the elder-tree ;
Look, firs, if you can find the huntsman out,
That fhould have murder'd Baffianus here.

AAR. My gracious lord, here is the bag of gold.
[Showing it.
SAT. Two of thy whelps, [To TIT.] fell curs of bloody

Have here bereft my brother of his life :.

[kind,

Sirs, drag them from the pit unto the prison;
There let them bide, until we have devis'd

Some never-heard-of torturing pain for them.

TAM. What, are they in this pit? O wondrous thing! How eafily murder is difcovered!

TIT. High emperor, upon my feeble knee
I beg this boon, with tears not lightly fhed,
That this fell fault of my accurfed fons,
Accurfed, if the fault be prov'd in them,-
SAT. If it be prov'd! you fee, it is apparent.—
Who found this letter? Tamora, was it

you? TAM. Andronicus himself did take it up.

TIT. I did, my lord: yet let me be their bail:
For by my father's reverend tomb, I vow,
They fhall be ready at your highness' will,

To answer their fufpicion with their lives.

SAT. Thou fhalt not bail them; fee, thou follow me, Some bring the murder'd body, fome the murderers: Let them not speak a word, the guilt is plain; For, by my foul, were there worse end than death, That end upon them fhould be executed.

TAM. Andronicus, I will entreat the king;

Fear not thy fons, they fhall do well enough.

TIT. Come, Lucius, come; ftay not to talk with them. [Exeunt feverally.

SCENE V. The fame.

Enter DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, with LAVINIA, ravish'd; her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out. DEM. So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak, Who 'twas that cut thy tongue, and ravish'd thee.

CHI. Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning fo; And, if thy ftumps will let thee, play the scribe.

DEM. See, how with figns and tokens fhe can fcowl. CHI. Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy hands. DEM. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash; And fo let's leave her to her filent walks.

CHI. An 'twere my cafe, I should go hang myself. DEM. If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord. [Exeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON.

Enter MARCUS.

MAR. Who's this,-my niece, that flies away fo fast? Coufin, a word; Where is your husband?

If I do dream, 'would all my wealth would wake me!
If I do wake, fome planet ftrike me down,
That I may lumber in eternal sleep!—

Speak, gentle niece, what ftern ungentle hands

Have lopp'd, and hew'd, and made thy body bare

Of her two branches? those sweet ornaments,
Whose circling fhadows kings have fought to fleep in;
And might not gain fo great a happiness,

As half thy love? Why doft not speak to me?—
Alas, a crimson river of warm blood,

Like to a bubbling fountain ftirr'd with wind,
Doth rife and fall between thy rofed lips,
Coming and going with thy honey breath.
But, fure, fome Tereus hath defloured thee;
And, left thou should'ft detect him, cut thy tongue.
Ah, now thou turn'ft away thy face for fhame!
And, notwithstanding all this loss of blood,—
As from a conduit with three iffuing spouts,
Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face,
Blushing to be encounter'd with a cloud.
Shall I speak for thee? fhall I fay, 'tis fo?
O, that I knew thy heart; and knew the beast,
That I might rail at him to ease my mind!
Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp'd,
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 those pretty fingers off,
That could have better few'd than Philomel.
O, had the monster feen thofe lily hands
Tremble, like afpen leaves, upon a lute,

And make the silken ftrings delight to kiss them;
He would not then have touch'd them for his life:
Or, had he heard the heavenly harmony,

Which that fweet tongue hath made,

He would have dropp'd his knife, and fell asleep,

As Cerberus at the Thracian poet's feet.
Come, let us go, and make thy father blind;
For fuch a fight will blind a father's eye:

One hour's storm 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;
O, could our mourning ease thy mifery!

ACT III.

SCENE 1. Rome. A Street.

[Exeunt.

Enter Senators, Tribunes, and Officers of justice, with MARTIUS and QUINTUS, bound, paffing on to the place of execution; TITUS going before, pleading.

TIT. Hear me, grave fathers! noble tribunes, stay!
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 frosty nights that I have watch'd;
And for thefe bitter tears, which now you fee
Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks;
Be pitiful to my condemned fons,

Whose fouls are not corrupted as 'tis thought!
For two and twenty fons I never wept,
Because they died in honour's lofty bed.
For these, thefe, tribunes, in the duft I write

[Throwing himself on the ground.
My heart's deep languor, and my foul's fad tears.
Let my tears stanch thè earth's dry appetite;
My fons' fweet blood will make it shame and blush.

[Exeunt Senators, Tribunes, &c. with the prisoners. O earth! I will befriend thee more with rain, That shall 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 fnow,
And keep eternal fpring-time on thy face,
So thou refufe 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. O, noble father, you lament in vain;
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 entreat 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,
All bootless to them, they'd not pity me.
Therefore I tell my forrows to the stones;
Who, though they cannot answer my distress,
Yet in fome fort they're 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 these.

A ftone is foft as 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

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