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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; |
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