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Marc. 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 ransome my two nephews from their death; Then have I kept it to a worthy end. Aar. Nay, come agree, whose hand shall go
Marc. My hand shall go.
By heaven, it shall not go.
these Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine,
Luc. Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son, Let me redeem my brothers both from
death. Marc. And, for our father's sake, and mother's
Tit. Agree between you; I will spare my hand.
But I will use the axe.
[Exeunt Lucius and MARCUS. Tit. Come hither, Aaron ; I'll deceive them both; Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine.
Aar. If that be call'd deceit, I will be honest,
sort, And that
[ Aside. [He cuts of Titus's Hand.
say, cre half
Enter Lucius and MARCUS.
Tell him, it was a hand that warded him
Aar. I go, Andronicus : and for thy hand,
0[ 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. Tit. 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; -What, wilt thou kneel with me?
[To LAVINIA. Do then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our
Marc. Ó ! brother, speak with possibilities,
Tit. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom ? Then be my passions : bottomless with them.
Marc. But yet let reason govern thy lament.
Tit. If there were reason for these miseries, Then into limits could I bind my woes : When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'er
flow? If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, Threat'ning the welkin * with his big-swoln face ? And wilt thou have a reason for this coils ? 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 ;
4 The sky.
s Stir, bustle.
Then must my earth with her continual tears
Enter a Messenger, with Two Heads and a Hánd.
Mess. 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 the remembrance of my father's death.
Marc. Now let hot Ætna cool in Sicily, And be my heart an ever-burning fire ! 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. Luc. Ah, that this sight should make so deep a
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 him. Marc. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless, As frozen water to a starved snake.
Tit. When will this fearful slumber have an end ?
Marc. 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 : Rent 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 ?
Tit. Ha, ha, ha!
Marc. Why dost thou laugh ? it fits not with this
[Exeunt Titus, MARCUS, and LAVINIA.-
A Room in Titus's House. A Banquet set out.
Enter Titus, MARCUS, LAVINIA, and Young Lu
cius, 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 tyrannize 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. Marc. Fye, brother, fye! teach her not thus to
lay Such violent hands upon her tender life. Tit. How now! has sorrow made thee dote al
ready? 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 ? VOL. IX.