Titus, when wert thou wont to walk alone,
Dishonour’d thus, and challenged of wrongs?
O Titus, see, O, see what thou hast done!
In a bad quarrel slain a virtuous son.
No, foolish tribune, no; no son of mine,
Nor thou, nor these, confederates in the deed
That hath dishonour’d all our family;
Unworthy brother, and unworthy sons!
But let us give him burial, as becomes;
Give Mutius burial with our brethren.
Traitors, away! he rests not in this tomb:
This monument five hundred years hath stood,
Which I have sumptuously re-edified:
Here none but soldiers and Rome’s servitors
Repose in fame; none basely slain in brawls:
Bury him where you can; he comes not here.
My lord, this is impiety in you:
My nephew Mutius’ deeds do plead for him;
He must be buried with his brethren.
Martius
No, noble Titus, but entreat of thee
To pardon Mutius and to bury him.
Marcus, even thou hast struck upon my crest,
And, with these boys, mine honour thou hast wounded:
My foes I do repute you every one;
So, trouble me no more, but get you gone.
Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter
His noble nephew here in virtue’s nest,
That died in honour and Lavinia’s cause.
Thou art a Roman; be not barbarous:
The Greeks upon advice did bury Ajax
That slew himself; and wise Laertes’ son
Did graciously plead for his funerals:
Let not young Mutius, then, that was thy joy,
Be barr’d his entrance here.
Rise, Marcus, rise.
The dismall’st day is this that e’er I saw,
To be dishonour’d by my sons in Rome!
Well, bury him, and bury me the next. Mutius is put into the tomb.
There lie thy bones, sweet Mutius, with thy friends,
Till we with trophies do adorn thy tomb.
Kneeling. No man shed tears for noble Mutius;
He lives in fame that died in virtue’s cause.
My lord, to step out of these dreary dumps,
How comes it that the subtle Queen of Goths
Is of a sudden thus advanced in Rome?
I know not, Marcus; but I know it is:
Whether by device or no, the heavens can tell:
Is she not then beholding to the man
That brought her for this high good turn so far?
Yes, and will nobly him remunerate.
So, Bassianus, you have play’d your prize:
God give you joy, sir, of your gallant bride!
And you of yours, my lord! I say no more,
Nor wish no less; and so, I take my leave.
Traitor, if Rome have law or we have power,
Thou and thy faction shall repent this rape.
Rape, call you it, my lord, to seize my own,
My true-betrothed love and now my wife?
But let the laws of Rome determine all;
Meanwhile I am possess’d of that is mine.
’Tis good, sir: you are very short with us;
But, if we live, we’ll be as sharp with you.
My lord, what I have done, as best I may,
Answer I must and shall do with my life.
Only thus much I give your grace to know:
By all the duties that I owe to Rome,
This noble gentleman, Lord Titus here,
Is in opinion and in honour wrong’d;
That in the rescue of Lavinia
With his own hand did slay his youngest son,
In zeal to you and highly moved to wrath
To be controll’d in that he frankly gave:
Receive him, then, to favour, Saturnine,
That hath express’d himself in all his deeds
A father and a friend to thee and Rome.
Prince Bassianus, leave to plead my deeds:
’Tis thou and those that have dishonour’d me.
Rome and the righteous heavens be my judge,
How I have loved and honour’d Saturnine!
My worthy lord, if ever Tamora
Were gracious in those princely eyes of thine,
Then hear me speak in indifferently for all;
And at my suit, sweet, pardon what is past.
What, madam! be dishonour’d openly,
And basely put it up without revenge?
Not so, my lord; the gods of Rome forfend
I should be author to dishonour you!
But on mine honour dare I undertake
For good Lord Titus’ innocence in all;
Whose fury not dissembled speaks his griefs:
Then, at my suit, look graciously on him;
Lose not so noble a friend on vain suppose,
Nor with sour looks afflict his gentle heart.
Aside to Saturninus. My lord, be ruled by me, be won at last;
Dissemble all your griefs and discontents:
You are but newly planted in your throne;
Lest, then, the people, and patricians too,
Upon a just survey, take Titus’ part,
And so supplant you for ingratitude,
Which Rome reputes to be a heinous sin,
Yield at entreats; and then let me alone:
I’ll find a day to massacre them all
And raze their faction and their family,
The cruel father and his traitorous sons,
To whom I sued for my dear son’s life,
And make them know what ’tis to let a queen
Kneel in the streets and beg for grace in vain.
Come, come, sweet emperor; come, Andronicus;
Take up this good old man, and cheer the heart
That dies in tempest of thy angry frown.
I thank your majesty, and her, my lord:
These words, these looks, infuse new life in me.
Titus, I am incorporate in Rome,
A Roman now adopted happily,
And must advise the emperor for his good.
This day all quarrels die,
