ACT III. SCENE I. Rome. A street  Enter the JUDGES, TRIBUNES, and SENATORS, with TITUS' two sons MARTIUS and QUINTUS bound, passing on the stage to the place of execution, and TITUS going before, pleading    TITUS. Hear me, grave fathers; noble Tribunes, stay!     For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent     In dangerous wars whilst you securely slept;     For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed,     For all the frosty nights that I have watch'd,     And for these bitter tears, which now you see     Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks,     Be pitiful to my condemned sons,     Whose souls are not corrupted as 'tis thought.     For two and twenty sons I never wept,     Because they died in honour's lofty bed.                           [ANDRONICUS lieth down, and the judges                      pass by him with the prisoners, and exeunt]     For these, Tribunes, in the dust I write     My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears.     Let my tears stanch the earth's dry appetite;     My sons' sweet blood will make it shame and blush.     O earth, I will befriend thee more with rain     That shall distil from these two ancient urns,     Than youthful April shall with all his show'rs.     In summer's drought I'll drop upon thee still;     In winter with warm tears I'll melt the snow     And keep eternal spring-time on thy face,     So thou refuse to drink my dear sons' blood.               Enter Lucius with his weapon drawn      O reverend Tribunes! O gentle aged men!     Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death,     And let me say, that never wept before,     My tears are now prevailing orators.   LUCIUS. O noble father, you lament in vain;     The Tribunes hear you not, no man is by,     And you recount your sorrows to a stone.   TITUS. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead!     Grave Tribunes, once more I entreat of you.   LUCIUS. My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak.   TITUS. Why, 'tis no matter, man: if they did hear,     They would not mark me; if they did mark,     They would not pity me; yet plead I must,     And bootless unto them.     Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones;     Who though they cannot answer my distress,     Yet in some sort they 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 seem to weep with me;     And were they but attired in grave weeds,     Rome could afford no tribunes like to these.     A stone is soft as wax: tribunes more hard than stones.     A stone is silent and offendeth not,     And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death.                                                          [Rises]     But wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawn?   LUCIUS. To rescue my two brothers from their death;     For which attempt the judges have pronounc'd     My everlasting doom of banishment.   TITUS. O happy man! they have befriended thee.     Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive     That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers?     Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey     But me and mine; how happy art thou then     From these devourers to be banished!     But who comes with our brother Marcus here?                   Enter MARCUS with LAVINIA    MARCUS. Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep,     Or if not so, thy noble heart to break.     I bring consuming sorrow to thine age.   TITUS. Will it consume me? Let me see it then.   MARCUS. This was thy daughter.   TITUS. Why, Marcus, so she is.   LUCIUS. Ay me! this object kills me.   TITUS. Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her.     Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand     Hath made thee handless in thy father's sight?     What fool hath added water to the sea,     Or brought a fagot to bright-burning Troy?     My grief was at the height before thou cam'st,     And now like Nilus it disdaineth bounds.     Give me a sword, I'll chop off my hands too,     For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain;     And they have nurs'd this woe in feeding life;     In bootless prayer have they been held up,     And they have serv'd me to effectless use.     Now all the service I require of them     Is that the one will help to cut the other.     'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands;     For hands to do Rome service is but vain.   LUCIUS. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr'd thee?   MARCUS. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts     That blabb'd them with such pleasing eloquence     Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage,     Where like a sweet melodious bird it sung     Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear!   LUCIUS. O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed?   MARCUS. O, thus I found her straying in the park,     Seeking to hide herself as doth the deer     That hath receiv'd some unrecuring wound.   TITUS. It was my dear, and he that wounded her     Hath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead;     For now I stand as one upon a rock,     Environ'd with a wilderness of sea,     Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave,     Expecting ever when some envious surge     Will in his brinish bowels swallow him.     This way to death my wretched sons are gone;     Here stands my other son, a banish'd man,     And here my brother, weeping at my woes.     But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn     Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul.     Had I but seen thy picture in this plight,     It would have madded me; what shall I do     Now I behold thy lively body so?     Thou hast 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, son Lucius, look on her!     When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears     Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey dew     Upon a gath'red lily almost withered.   MARCUS. Perchance she weeps because they kill'd her husband;     Perchance because she knows them innocent.   TITUS. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful,     Because the law hath ta'en revenge on them.     No, no, they would not do so foul a deed;     Witness the sorrow that their sister makes.     Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips,     Or make some sign how I may do thee ease.     Shall thy good uncle and thy brother Lucius     And thou and I sit round about some fountain,     Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks     How they are stain'd, like meadows yet not dry     With miry slime left on them by a flood?     And in the fountain shall we gaze so long,     Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness,     And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears?     Or shall we cut away our hands like thine?     Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows     Pass the remainder of our hateful days?     What shall we do? Let us that have our tongues     Plot some device of further misery     To make us wonder'd at in time to come.   LUCIUS. Sweet father, cease your tears; for at your grief     See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps.   MARCUS. Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine eyes.   TITUS. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! Brother, well I wot     Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine,     For thou, poor man, hast drown'd it with thine own.   LUCIUS. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks.   TITUS. Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs.     Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say     That to her brother which I said to thee:     His napkin, with his true tears all bewet,     Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks.     O, what a sympathy of woe is this     As far from help as Limbo is from bliss!                     Enter AARON the Moor    AARON. Titus Andronicus, my lord the Emperor     Sends thee this word, that, if thou love thy sons,     Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus,     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 sons alive,     And that shall be the ransom for their fault.   TITUS. O gracious Emperor! O gentle Aaron!     Did ever raven sing so like a lark     That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise?     With all my heart I'll send the Emperor my hand.     Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off?   LUCIUS. Stay, father! for that noble hand of thine,     That hath thrown down so many enemies,     Shall not be sent. My hand will serve the turn,     My youth can better spare my blood than you,     And therefore mine shall save my brothers' lives.   MARCUS. 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 ransom my two nephews from their death;     Then have I kept it to a worthy end.   AARON. Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along,     For fear they die before their pardon come.   MARCUS. My hand shall go.   LUCIUS. By heaven, it shall not go!   TITUS. Sirs, strive no more; such with'red herbs as these     Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine.   LUCIUS. Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son,     Let me redeem my brothers both from death.   MARCUS. And for our father's sake and mother's care,     Now let me show a brother's love to thee.   TITUS. Agree between you; I will spare my hand.   LUCIUS. Then I'll go fetch an axe.   MARCUS. But I will use the axe.                                         Exeunt LUCIUS and MARCUS   TITUS. Come hither, Aaron, I'll deceive them both;     Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine.   AARON.  [Aside]  If that be call'd deceit, I will be honest,     And never whilst I live deceive men so;     But I'll deceive you in another sort,     And that you'll say ere half an hour pass.                                        [He cuts off TITUS' hand]                   Re-enter LUCIUS and MARCUS   TITUS. Now stay your strife. What shall be is dispatch'd.     Good Aaron, give his Majesty my hand;     Tell him it was a hand that warded him     From thousand dangers; bid him bury it.     More hath it merited- that let it have.     As for my sons, say I account of them     As jewels purchas'd at an easy price;     And yet dear too, because I bought mine own.   AARON. I go, Andronicus; and for thy hand     Look by and by to have thy sons with thee.     [Aside]  Their heads I mean. O, how this villainy     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   TITUS. 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!  [To LAVINIA]  What, would'st thou kneel with me?     Do, then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our prayers,     Or with our sighs we'll breathe the welkin dim     And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds     When they do hug him in their melting bosoms.   MARCUS. O brother, speak with possibility,     And do not break into these deep extremes.   TITUS. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom?     Then be my passions bottomless with them.   MARCUS. But yet let reason govern thy lament.   TITUS. If there were reason for these miseries,     Then into limits could I bind my woes.     When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow?     If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad,     Threat'ning the welkin with his big-swol'n face?     And wilt thou have a reason for this coil?     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;     Then must my earth with her continual tears     Become a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd;     For why my bowels cannot hide her woes,     But like a drunkard must I vomit them.     Then give me leave; for losers will have leave     To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.          Enter a MESSENGER, with two heads and a hand    MESSENGER. 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 grief their sports, thy resolution mock'd,     That woe is me to think upon thy woes,     More than remembrance of my father's death.             Exit   MARCUS. Now let hot Aetna cool in Sicily,     And be my heart an ever-burning hell!     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.   LUCIUS. Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound,     And 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 TITUS]   MARCUS. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless     As frozen water to a starved snake.   TITUS. When will this fearful slumber have an end?   MARCUS. Now farewell, flatt'ry; 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?   TITUS. Ha, ha, ha!   MARCUS. Why dost thou laugh? It fits not with this hour.   TITUS. Why, I have not another tear to shed;     Besides, this sorrow is an enemy,     And would usurp upon my wat'ry eyes     And make them blind with tributary tears.     Then which way shall I find Revenge's cave?     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.     And, Lavinia, thou shalt be employ'd in this;     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 ye love me, as I think you do,     Let's kiss and part, for we have much to do.                                            Exeunt all but Lucius   LUCIUS. Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father,     The woefull'st man that ever liv'd 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 Saturnine and his emperess     Beg at the gates like Tarquin and his queen.     Now will I to the Goths, and raise a pow'r     To be reveng'd on Rome and Saturnine.                   Exit     SCENE II. Rome. TITUS' house  A banquet.  Enter TITUS, MARCUS, LAVINIA, and the boy YOUNG LUCIUS    TITUS. 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;     Who, when my heart, all mad with misery,     Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh,     Then thus I thump it down.     [To LAVINIA]  Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs!     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.   MARCUS. Fie, brother, fie! Teach her not thus to lay     Such violent hands upon her tender life.   TITUS. 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 Aeneas 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 sorrow, 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 laments;     Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.   MARCUS. Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov'd,     Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness.   TITUS. 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?   MARCUS. At that that I have kill'd, my lord- a fly.   TITUS. 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.   MARCUS. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.   TITUS. 'But!' How if that fly had a father and mother?     How would he hang his slender gilded wings     And buzz 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.   MARCUS. Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favour'd fly,     Like to the Empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him.   TITUS. O, O, O!     Then pardon me for reprehending thee,     For thou hast done a charitable deed.     Give me thy knife, I will insult on him,     Flattering myself as if it were the Moor     Come hither purposely to poison me.     There's for thyself, and that's for Tamora.     Ah, sirrah!     Yet, I think, we are not brought so low     But that between us we can kill a fly     That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.   MARCUS. Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on him,     He takes false shadows for true substances.   TITUS. Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me;     I'll to thy closet, and go read with thee     Sad stories chanced in the times of old.     Come, boy, and go with me; thy sight is young,     And thou shalt read when mine begin to dazzle.        Exeunt