Titus Andronicus

nor make a sign,
But I of these will wrest an alphabet
And by still practise 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 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’s garden.

	Enter Young Lucius, and Lavinia running after him, and the boy flies from her, with books under his arm. Then enter Titus and Marcus.
Young Lucius	Help, grandsire, help! my aunt Lavinia Follows me every where, 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.
Young Lucius	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?
Young Lucius	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 through 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 was 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?
Young Lucius	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! see how busily she turns the leaves! Helping 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 thine annoy.
Marcus	See, brother, see; note how she quotes the leaves.
Titus	Lavinia, wert thou thus surprised, sweet girl, Ravish’d and wrong’d, as Philomela was, Forced 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: This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst, This after me, when I have writ my name Without the help of any hand at all. He writes his name with his staff, and guides it with feet and mouth. Cursed be that heart that forced us to this shift! Write thou good niece; and here display, at last, What God will have discover’d 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 her stumps, and writes.
Titus	O, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ? “Stuprum. Chiron. Demetrius.”
Marcus	What,