The Complete Works of William Shakespeare - William Shakespeare (book suggestions .TXT) 📗

lute And make the silken strings delight to kiss them, He would not then have touch’d them for his life!

Or had he heard the heavenly harmony

Which that sweet 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 such a sight 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 case thy misery! Exeunt

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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 springtime 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,