Titus Andronicus

hands
Have lopp’d and hew’d and made thy body bare
Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments,
Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in,
And might not gain so great a happiness
As have thy love? Why dost not speak to me?
Alas, a crimson river of warm blood,
Like to a bubbling fountain stirr’d with wind,
Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips,
Coming and going with thy honey breath.
But, sure, some Tereus hath deflowered thee,
And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue.
Ah, now thou turn’st away thy face for shame!
And, notwithstanding all this loss of blood,
As from a conduit with three issuing spouts,
Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan’s face
Blushing to be encounter’d with a cloud.
Shall I speak for thee? shall I say ’tis so?
O, that I knew thy heart; and knew the beast,
That I might rail at him, to ease my mind!
Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp’d,
Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.
Fair Philomela, she but lost her tongue,
And in a tedious sampler sew’d her mind:
But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee;
A craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met,
And he hath cut those pretty fingers off,
That could have better sew’d than Philomel.
O, had the monster seen those lily hands
Tremble, like aspen-leaves, upon a lute,
And make the silken strings delight to kiss them,
He would not then have touch’d them for his life!
Or, had he heard the heavenly harmony
Which that sweet tongue hath made,
He would have dropp’d his knife, and fell asleep
As Cerberus at the Thracian poet’s feet.
Come, let us go, and make thy father blind;
For such a sight will blind a father’s eye:
One hour’s storm will drown the fragrant meads;
What will whole months of tears thy father’s eyes?
Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee:
O, could our mourning ease thy misery! Exeunt.

Act III

Scene I

Rome. A street.

	Enter Judges, Senators and Tribunes, with Martius and Quintus, bound, passing on to the place of execution; Titus going before, pleading.
Titus	Hear me, grave fathers! noble tribunes, stay! For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent In dangerous wars, whilst you securely slept; For all my blood in Rome’s great quarrel shed; For all the frosty nights that I have watch’d; And for these bitter tears, which now you see Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks; Be pitiful to my condemned sons, Whose souls are not corrupted as ’tis thought. For two and twenty sons I never wept, Because they died in honour’s lofty bed. Lieth down; the Judges, etc. pass by him, and Exeunt. For these, these, tribunes, in the dust I write My heart’s deep languor and my soul’s sad tears: Let my tears stanch the earth’s dry appetite; My sons’ sweet blood will make it shame and blush. O earth, I will befriend thee more with rain, That shall distil from these two ancient urns, Than youthful April shall with all his showers: In summer’s drought I’ll drop upon thee still; In winter with warm tears I’ll melt the snow, And keep eternal spring-time on thy face, So thou refuse to drink my dear sons’ blood.
	Enter Lucius, with his sword drawn.
	O reverend tribunes! O gentle, aged men! Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death; And let me say, that never wept before, My tears are now prevailing orators.
Lucius	O noble father, you lament in vain: The tribunes hear you not; no man is by; And you recount your sorrows to a stone.
Titus	Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead. Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you⁠—
Lucius	My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak.
Titus	Why, ’tis no matter, man: if they did hear, They would not mark me, or if they did mark, They would not pity me, yet plead I must; And bootless unto them⁠— Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones; Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me; And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these. A stone is soft as wax⁠—tribunes more hard than stones; A stone is silent, and offendeth not, And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death. Rises. But wherefore stand’st thou with thy weapon drawn?
Lucius	To rescue my two brothers from their death: For which attempt the judges have pronounced My everlasting doom of banishment.
Titus	O happy man! they have befriended thee. Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers? Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey But me and mine: how happy art thou, then, From these devourers to be banished! But who comes with our brother Marcus here?
	Enter Marcus and 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	Ay me, this object kills me!
Titus	Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her. 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 camest, 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, are but vain.
Lucius	Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyr’d thee?
Marcus	O, that delightful engine of her thoughts, That blabb’d 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,