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 (falling on his knees)

  Ay me, this object kills me.

  TITUS

  Faint-hearted boy, arise and look upon her.

  ⌈Lucius rises⌉

  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 faggot 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 nursed this woe in feeding life;

  In bootless prayer have they been held up,

  And they have served 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 martyred thee.

  MARCUS

  O, that delightful engine of her thoughts,

  That blabbed 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 received some unrecuring wound.

  TITUS

  It was my dear, and he that wounded her

  Hath hurt me more than had he killed me dead;

  For now I stand as one upon a rock

  Environed 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 banished 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 martyred thee.

  Thy husband he is dead, and for his death

  Thy brothers are condemned 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 gathered lily almost withered.

  MARCUS

  Perchance she weeps because they killed 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 stained, 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 wondered 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 drowned 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, alone

  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 reared aloft the bloody battleaxe,

  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 withered 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 called 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.

  Enter Lucius and Marcus again

  TITUS

  Now stay your strife. What shall be is dispatched.

  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 purchased 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.

  He kneels

  If any power pities wretched tears,

  To that I call. (To Lavinia, who kneels) What, wouldst

  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 sorrows 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-swoll’n face?

  And wilt thou have a reason for this coil?

  I am the sea. Hark how her sighs doth 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 overflowed and drowned,

  Forwhy 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 mocked,

  That woe is me to think upon thy woes

  More than remembrance of my father’s death.

  ⌈He sets down the heads and hand. Exit⌉

  MARCUS

  Now let hot Etna 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 banished 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.

  Rend 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 returned again

  Even in their throats that hath committed them.

  Come, let me see what task I have to do.

  ⌈He and Lavinia rise⌉

  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.

  Marcus, Lucius, and Lavinia circle Titus. He

  pledges them

  The vow is made. Come, brother, take a head,

  And in this hand the other will I bear.

  And Lavinia, thou shalt be employed.

  Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thine arms.

  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.

  They kiss. Exeunt all but Lucius

  LUCIUS

  Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father,

  The woefull‘st man that ever lived in Rome.

  Farewell, proud Rome, till Lucius come again;

  He loves 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 empress

  Beg at the gates like Tarquin and his queen.

  Now will I to the Goths and raise a power,

  To be revenged on Rome and Saturnine. Exit

  3.2 A banquet. Enter Titus Andronicus, 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.

  ⌈They sit⌉

  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.

  He beats his breast

  (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 martyred signs.

  She says she drinks no other drink but tears,

  Brewed with her sorrow, mashed 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.

  YOUNG LUCIUS

  Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments.

  Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.

  MARCUS

  Alas, the tender boy in passion moved

  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 killed, my lord—a fly.

  TITUS

  Out on thee, murderer! Thou kill’st my heart.