1594 The Tragedy Of Titus Andronicus
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Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 Next page Of her two branches- those sweet ornaments Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in, And might not gain so great a happiness As half thy love? Why dost not speak to me? Alas, a crimson river of warm blood, Like to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind, Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips, Coming and going with thy honey breath. But sure some Tereus hath deflowered thee, And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue. Ah, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame! And notwithstanding all this loss of blood- As from a conduit with three issuing spouts- Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face Blushing to be encount'red with a cloud. Shall I speak for thee? Shall I say 'tis so? O, that I knew thy heart, and knew the beast, That I might rail at him to ease my mind! Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp'd, Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is. Fair Philomel, why she but lost her tongue, And in a tedious sampler sew'd her mind; But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee. A craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met, And he hath cut those pretty fingers off That could have better sew'd than Philomel. O, had the monster seen those lily hands Tremble like aspen leaves upon a 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 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. |
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