Titus Page #6

Will it consume me?

Let me see it then.

This... was thy daughter.

Why, Marcus, so she is.

This object kills me.

Fainthearted 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 torch

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.

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.

Speak, gentle sister.

Who hath martyred thee?

Oh, that delightful engine

of her thoughts...

is torn from forth

that pretty, hollow cage.

Oh!

Say thou for her.

Who hath done this deed?

Oh, thus I found her

straying in the park,

seeking to hide herself

as doth the deer...

that hath received

some unrecuring wound.

It was my deer,

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.

This way to death

my wretched sons have 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.

Gentle daughter,

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, by a flood?

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.

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.

O gracious emperor!

O gentle Aaron!

Did ever raven sing

so like a lark?

With all my heart, I'll

send his majesty my hand.

Good Aaron, wilt thou

help to chop it off?

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.

Which of your hands

hath not defended Rome...

and reared aloft

the bloody battle-ax?

My hand hath been but idle. Let it serve

to ransom my two nephews from their death.

Nay, come, agree to whose

hand shall go along,

for fear they die

before their pardon come.

My hand shall go!

By heaven, it shall not go!

Now let me show

a brother's love to thee.

Agree between you.

I will spare my hand.

Then I'll go fetch an ax.

But I will use the ax.

Come hither, Aaron.

I'll deceive them both.

Lend me thy hand,

and I will give thee mine.

If that be called deceit,

I will be honest.

Hey! Hey!

Hey!

Oh, 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!

As for my sons,

say I account of them...

as jewels purchased

at an easy price.

I go, Andronicus.

And for thy hand,

look by and by...

to have thy sons with thee.

Their heads, I mean.

Oh, 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.

Oh, here I lift this one hand

up to heaven...

and bow this feeble ruin

to the earth.

If any power pities

wretched tears,

to that I call.

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 sometimes clouds...

when they do hug him

in their melting bosoms.

O brother,

speak with possibility,

and do not break into

these deep extremes.

Are not my sorrows deep,

having no bottom?

Then be my passions

bottomless with them.

But yet let reason

govern thy lament.

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,

threatening the welkin

with his big, swollen face?

Wouldst thou have a reason

for this coil?

I am the sea.

Hark how her sighs do 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.

For why 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.

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.

And be my heart

an ever-burning hell.

These miseries are more than may be borne.

That this sight should

make so deep a wound,

and yet detested life

not shrink thereat!

Alas, poor heart,

that kiss is comfortless as

frozen water to a starved snake.

When will this fearful

slumber have an end?

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.

Rent 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?

Why dost thou laugh?

Why, I have not

another tear to shed.

Besides, this sorrow

is the enemy...

and would usurp

upon my watery 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 have committed them.

Now, let me see

what task I have to do.

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.

The vow is made.

Come, brother, take a head.

In this hand,

the other will I bear.

And thou, Lavinia,

thou shalt be employed.

Bear thou my hand, sweet wench,

between thy teeth.

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.

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