Shakespeare's First Folio Part 486

Enter Lucius, with his weapon drawne.

Oh reuerent Tribunes, oh gentle aged men, Vnbinde my sonnes, reuerse the doome of death, And let me say (that neuer wept before) My teares are now preualing Oratours

Lu. Oh n.o.ble father, you lament in vaine, The Tribunes heare not, no man is by, And you recount your sorrowes to a stone

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

Lu. My gracious Lord, no Tribune heares you speake

Ti. Why 'tis no matter man, if they did heare They would not marke me: oh if they did heare They would not pitty me.

Therefore I tell my sorrowes bootles to the stones.

Who though they cannot answere my distresse, Yet in some sort they are better then the Tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale; When I doe weepe, they humbly at my feete Receiue my teares, and seeme to weepe with me, And were they but attired in graue weedes, Rome could afford no Tribune like to these.

A stone is as soft waxe, Tribunes more hard then stones: A stone is silent, and offendeth not, And Tribunes with their tongues doome men to death.

But wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawne?

Lu. To rescue my two brothers from their death, For which attempt the Iudges haue p.r.o.nounc'st My euerlasting doome of banishment

Ti. O happy man, they haue befriended thee: Why foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceiue That Rome is but a wildernes of Tigers?

Tigers must pray, and Rome affords no prey But me and mine: how happy art thou then, From these deuourers to be banished?

But who comes with our brother Marcus heere?

Enter Marcus and Lauinia.

Mar. t.i.tus, prepare thy n.o.ble eyes to weepe, Or if not so, thy n.o.ble heart to breake: I bring consuming sorrow to thine age

Ti. Will it consume me? Let me see it then

Mar. This was thy daughter

Ti. Why Marcus so she is

Luc. Aye me this obiect kils me

Ti. Faint-harted boy, arise and looke vpon her, Speake Lauinia, what accursed hand Hath made thee handlesse in thy Fathers sight?

What foole hath added water to the Sea?

Or brought a f.a.ggot to bright burning Troy?

My griefe was at the height before thou cam'st, And now like Nylus it disdaineth bounds: Giue me a sword, Ile chop off my hands too, For they haue fought for Rome, and all in vaine: And they haue nur'st this woe, In feeding life: In bootelesse prayer haue they bene held vp, And they haue seru'd me to effectlesse vse.

Now all the seruice I require of them, Is that the one will helpe to cut the other: 'Tis well Lauinia, that thou hast no hands, For hands to do Rome seruice, is but vaine

Luci. Speake gentle sister, who hath martyr'd thee?

Mar. O that delightfull engine of her thoughts, That blab'd them with such pleasing eloquence, Is torne from forth that pretty hollow cage, Where like a sweet mellodius bird it sung, Sweet varied notes inchanting euery eare

Luci. Oh say thou for her, Who hath done this deed?

Marc. Oh thus I found her straying in the Parke, Seeking to hide herselfe as doth the Deare That hath receiude some vnrecuring wound

t.i.t. It was my Deare, And he that wounded her, Hath hurt me more, then had he kild me dead: For now I stand as one vpon a Rocke, Inuiron'd with a wildernesse of Sea.

Who markes the waxing tide, Grow waue by waue, Expecting euer when some enuious surge, Will in his brinish bowels swallow him.

This way to death my wretched sonnes are gone: Heere stands my other sonne, a banisht man, And heere my brother weeping at my woes.

But that which giues my soule the greatest spurne, Is deere Lauinia, deerer then my soule.

Had I but seene thy picture in this plight, It would haue madded me. What shall I doe?

Now I behold thy liuely body so?

Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy teares, 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.

Looke Marcus, ah sonne Lucius looke on her: When I did name her brothers, then fresh teares Stood on her cheekes, as doth the hony dew, Vpon a gathred Lillie almost withered

Mar. Perchance she weepes because they kil'd her husband, Perchance because she knowes him innocent

Ti. If they did kill thy husband then be ioyfull, Because the law hath tane reuenge on them.

No, no, they would not doe so foule a deede, Witnes the sorrow that their sister makes.

Gentle Lauinia let me kisse thy lips, Or make some signes how I may do thee ease: Shall thy good Vncle, and thy brother Lucius, And thou and I sit round about some Fountaine, Looking all downewards to behold our cheekes How they are stain'd in meadowes, yet not dry With miery slime left on them by a flood: And in the Fountaine shall we gaze so long, Till the fresh taste be taken from that cleerenes, And made a brine pit with our bitter teares?

Or shall we cut away our hands like thine?

Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumbe shewes Pa.s.se the remainder of our hatefull dayes?

What shall we doe? Let vs that haue our tongues Plot some deuise of further miseries To make vs wondred at in time to come

Lu. Sweet Father cease your teares, for at your griefe See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps

Mar. Patience deere Neece, good t.i.tus drie thine eyes

Ti. Ah Marcus, Marcus, Brother well I wot, Thy napkin cannot drinke a teare of mine, For thou poore man hast drown'd it with thine owne

Lu. Ah my Lauinia I will wipe thy cheekes

Ti. Marke Marcus marke, I vnderstand her signes, Had she a tongue to speake, now would she say That to her brother which I said to thee.

His Napkin with her true teares all bewet, Can do no seruice on her sorrowfull cheekes.

Oh what a simpathy of woe is this!

As farre from helpe as Limbo is from blisse, Enter Aron the Moore alone.

Moore. t.i.tus Andronicus, my Lord the Emperour, Sends thee this word, that if thou loue thy sonnes, Let Marcus, Lucius, or thy selfe old t.i.tus, 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 sonnes aliue, And that shall be the ransome for their fault

Ti. Oh gracious Emperour, oh gentle Aaron.

Did euer Rauen sing so like a Larke, That giues sweet tydings of the Sunnes vprise?

With all my heart, Ile send the Emperour my hand, Good Aron wilt thou help to chop it off?

Lu. Stay Father, for that n.o.ble hand of thine, That hath throwne downe so many enemies, Shall not be sent: my hand will serue the turne, My youth can better spare my blood then you, And therfore mine shall saue my brothers liues

Mar. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome, And rear'd aloft the b.l.o.o.d.y Battleaxe, Writing destruction on the enemies Castle?

Oh none of both but are of high desert: My hand hath bin but idle, let it serue To ransome my two nephewes from their death, Then haue I kept it to a worthy end

Moore. Nay come agree, whose hand shall goe along For feare they die before their pardon come

Mar. My hand shall goe

Lu. By heauen it shall not goe

Ti. Sirs striue no more, such withered hearbs as these Are meete for plucking vp, and therefore mine

Lu. Sweet Father, if I shall be thought thy sonne, Let me redeeme my brothers both from death

Mar. And for our fathers sake, and mothers care, Now let me shew a brothers loue to thee

Ti. Agree betweene you, I will spare my hand

Lu. Then Ile goe fetch an Axe