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 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 ACT IV. SCENE I. Rome. TITUS' garden Enter YOUNG LUCIUS and LAVINIA running after him, and the boy flies from her with his books under his arm. Enter TITUS and MARCUS BOY. Help, grandsire, help! my aunt Lavinia Follows me everywhere, I know not why. Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes! Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean. MARCUS. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine aunt. TITUS. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm. BOY. Ay, when my father was in Rome she did. MARCUS. What means my niece Lavinia by these signs? TITUS. Fear her not, Lucius; somewhat doth she mean. See, Lucius, see how much she makes of thee. Somewhither would she have thee go with her. Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care Read to her sons than she hath read to thee Sweet poetry and Tully's Orator. MARCUS. Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus? BOY. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess, Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her; For I have heard my grandsire say full oft Extremity of griefs would make men mad; And I have read that Hecuba of Troy Ran mad for sorrow. That made me to fear; Although, my lord, I know my noble aunt Loves me as dear as e'er my mother did, And would not, but in fury, fright my youth; Which made me down to throw my books, and fly- Causeless, perhaps. But pardon me, sweet aunt; And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go, I will most willingly attend your ladyship. MARCUS. Lucius, I will. [LAVINIA turns over with her stumps the books which Lucius has let fall] TITUS. How now, Lavinia! Marcus, what means this? Some book there is that she desires to see. Which is it, girl, of these?- Open them, boy.- But thou art deeper read and better skill'd; Come and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed. Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus? MARCUS. I think she means that there were more than one Confederate in the fact; ay, more there was, Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge. TITUS. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so? BOY. Grandsire, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphoses; My mother gave it me. MARCUS. For love of her that's gone, Perhaps she cull'd it from among the rest. TITUS. Soft! So busily she turns the leaves! Help her. What would she find? Lavinia, shall I read? This is the tragic tale of Philomel And treats of Tereus' treason and his rape; And rape, I fear, was root of thy annoy. MARCUS. See, brother, see! Note how she quotes the leaves. TITUS. Lavinia, wert thou thus surpris'd, sweet girl, Ravish'd and wrong'd as Philomela was, Forc'd in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods? See, see! Ay, such a place there is where we did hunt- O, had we never, never hunted there!- Pattern'd by that the poet here describes, By nature made for murders and for rapes. MARCUS. O, why should nature build so foul a den, Unless the gods delight in tragedies? TITUS. Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none but friends, What Roman lord it was durst do the deed. Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst, That left the camp to sin in Lucrece' bed? MARCUS. Sit down, sweet niece; brother, sit down by me. Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury, Inspire me, that I may this treason find! My lord, look here! Look here, Lavinia! [He writes his name with his staff, and guides it with feet and mouth] This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst, This after me. I have writ my name Without the help of any hand at all. Curs'd be that heart that forc'd us to this shift! Write thou, good niece, and here display at last What God will have discovered for revenge. Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain, That we may know the traitors and the truth! [She takes the staff in her mouth and guides it with stumps, and writes] O, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ? TITUS. 'Stuprum- Chiron- Demetrius.' MARCUS. What, what! the lustful sons of Tamora Performers of this heinous bloody deed? TITUS. Magni Dominator poli, Tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides? MARCUS. O, calm thee, gentle lord! although I know There is enough written upon this earth To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts, And arm the minds of infants to exclaims. My lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel; And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope; And swear with me- as, with the woeful fere And father of that chaste dishonoured dame, Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece' rape- That we will prosecute, by good advice, Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths, And see their blood or die with this reproach. TITUS. 'Tis sure enough, an you knew how; But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware: The dam will wake; and if she wind ye once, She's with the lion deeply still in league, And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back, And when he sleeps will she do what she list. You are a young huntsman, Marcus; let alone; And come, I will go get a leaf of brass, And with a gad of steel will write these words, And lay it by. The angry northern wind Will blow these sands like Sibyl's leaves abroad, And where's our lesson, then? Boy, what say you? BOY. I say, my lord, that if I were a man Their mother's bedchamber should not be safe For these base bondmen to the yoke of Rome. MARCUS. Ay, that's my boy! Thy father hath full oft For his ungrateful country done the like. BOY. And, uncle, so will I, an if I live. TITUS. Come, go with me into mine armoury. Lucius, I'll fit thee; and withal my boy |
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