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 will I bear.

Lavinia, thou shalt be employ'd in these things;

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 woeful'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 Saturninus 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.

Tit. 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 tyrannise upon my breast;

And when my heart, all mad with misery,
Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh,

Then thus I thump it down.—

Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs!

[to Lavinia. 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.

Mar. Fie, brother, fie! teach her not thus to lay Such violent hands upon her tender life.

Tit. 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 Æneas 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 sorrows, 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 practice, learn to know thy meaning.
Boy. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep la-

ments:

1 Constant.

Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.
Mar. Alas, the tender boy, in passion moved,
Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness!
Tit. 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? Mar. At that that I have kill'd, my lord; a fly.

Tit. 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.

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

Tit. But how, if that fly had a father and mother?

How would he hang his slender gilded wings,

And buz 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.

Mar. Pardon me, sir; 'twas a black ill-favor'd

fly,

Like to the empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him.
Tit. 0, 0, 0,

Then pardon me for reprehending thee,
For thou hast done a charitable deed.

Give me thy knife; I will insult on him;