Titus Page #7

And if you love me,

as I think you do,

let's kiss and part,

for we have much to do.

Farewell, Andronicus,

my noble father.

The woefullest man

that ever lived in Rome.

Now will I to the Goths...

and raise a power

to be revenged on Rome...

and Saturnine.

So, so, now sit,

and look you eat

no more than will preserve...

just so much strength in us...

as will revenge

these bitter woes of ours.

Thou map of woe

that thus dost talk in signs,

when thy poor heart beats

with outrageous beating,

thou canst not strike it thus

to make it still.

Wound it with sighing, girl.

Kill it with groans.

Or get some little knife

between thy teeth...

and, just against thy heart,

make thou a hole,

that all the tears

that thy poor eyes let fall...

may run into that sink...

and, soaking in, drown the

lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.

Fie, brother, fie!

Hmm?

Teach her not thus to lay such

violent hands upon her tender life.

How now! Has sorrow

made thee dote already?

Oh, handle not the theme,

to talk of hands,

lest we remember still

that we have none.

Come, let's fall to.

And, gentle girl, eat this.

Here is no drink.

Hark, Marcus, what she says.

I can interpret

all her martyred signs.

She says she drinks

no other drink but tears.

Speechless complainer,

I will learn thy thought.

Thou shalt not sigh

nor hold thy stumps to heaven...

nor wink, nor nod,

nor kneel, nor make a sign,

but I of these

will wrest an alphabet...

and by still practice

learn to know thy meaning.

What dost thou strike at,

Lucius, with thy knife?

At that that I have

killed, my lord, a fly.

Out on thee, murderer!

Kill'st my heart!

A deed of death done on the innocent

becomes not Titus' grandson.

Get thee gone. I see thou

art not for my company.

Alas, my lord,

I have but killed a fly.

But?

How, if that fly had

a father and mother?

How would they hang

their 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 killed him.

Pardon me, sir. Hmm?

It was a black,

ill-favored fly,

like to the empress' Moor.

Therefore I killed him.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh!

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!

As 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.

Hey, baby, want to go for a ride?

Yeah!

Help, grandsire! Help!

My Aunt Lavinia

follows me everywhere.

I know not why.

Good Uncle Marcus, see

how swift she comes.

Alas, sweet aunt,

I know not what you mean.

Stand by me, Lucius.

Do not fear thine aunt.

Now, Lavinia, what means this?

Soft! So swiftly

she turns the leaves.

Help her.

What would she find?

Lavinia, shall I read?

"This is the tragic tale

of Philomel...

and treats of Tereus'

treason and his rape."

See, Brother, see.

Note how she quotes the leaves.

Lavinia, wert thou

thus surprised, sweet girl,

ravished and wronged

as Philomela was?

Forced in the ruthless,

vast, and gloomy wood?

Ay, such a place there is

where we did hunt.

Oh, why should nature

build so foul a den...

unless the gods delight

in tragedies?

Give sign, sweet girl,

what Roman lord it was

durst do this deed.

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.

Write thou, good niece,

and here display at last...

what God will have discovered

for revenge.

Cursed be the heart

that forced us to this shift.

It's Chiron and Demetrius.

My lord, kneel down with me.

Kneel, Lavinia,

and kneel, sweet boy,

and swear with me

that we will prosecute,

by good advice,

mortal revenge...

upon these traitorous Goths...

and see their blood

or die with this reproach.

'Tis sure enough,

an you knew how.

But if you hunt

these bear-whelps,

then beware.

You're a young huntsman,

Marcus. Let alone.

Come, go with me into mine armory, Lucius.

I'll fit thee.

And withal my boy shall send

from me to the empress' sons...

presents that I intend

to send them both.

Come, thou'lt do my message,

wilt thou not?

Ay, with my dagger

in their bosoms, grandsire.

No, not so.

I'll teach thee another course.

Lavinia, come.

Marcus, look to my house.

O heavens, can you hear

a good man groan...

and not relent

or not compassion him?

Marcus, attend him

in his ecstasy...

that hath more scars

of sorrow in his heart...

than foemen's marks

upon his battered shield,

but yet so just

that he will not revenge.

Revenge, ye heavens,

for old Andronicus!

Demetrius!

Here's the son of Lucius!

He hath some message

to deliver us.

Ay, some mad message

from his mad grandfather.

Aaah!

- My lords-

- Whoo!

With all the humbleness I may,

I greet your honors

from Andronicus.

Gramercy, lovely Lucius.

What's the news?

My grandsire, well advised,

hath sent by me...

the goodliest weapons

of his armory...

to gratify your honorable youth-

the hope of Rome,

for so he bid me say,

and so I do.

And so I leave you both.

Like bloody villains.

Yaaah!

Oh, 'tis a verse in Horace.

I know it well.

"He who is pure of life

and free of sin...

needs no bow and arrow

of the Moor."

Ay, just. A verse in Horace.

Right, you have it.

Now, what a thing

it is to be an ass.

Here's no sound jest.

The old man

hath found their guilt...

and sends them weapons

wrapped about with lines...

that wound beyond their feeling,

to the quick.

But were our witty empress

well afoot,

she would applaud

Andronicus' conceit,

but...

let her rest

in her unrest a while.

Come, let's go,

and pray to all the gods

to aid our mother...

in her labor pains.

Pray to the devils.

The gods have given us over.

Why do the emperor's trumpets

flourish thus?

Oh, belike for joy

the emperor hath a son.

Soft! Who comes here?

Good morrow, lords.

Oh, tell me,

did you see Aaron the Moor?

Well, more or less, or

ne'er a wit at all. Oh!

Here Aaron is,

and what with Aaron now?

O gentle Aaron,

we are all undone!

Now, help, or woe

betide thee evermore.

What a caterwauling

dost thou keep.

What dost thou wrap

and fumble in thine arms?

Oh, that which I would hide

from heaven's eye-

our empress' shame

and stately Rome's disgrace.

She is delivered, lords,

she is delivered.

To whom?

I mean, she is brought abed.

Well, God give her good rest.

- What hath he sent her?

- A devil.

Why, then,

she is the devil's dam,

a joyful issue.

A joyless, dismal, black,

and sorrowful issue.

Here is the babe,

as loathsome as a toad...

amongst the fairest

breeders of our clime.

The empress sends it thee,

thy stamp, thy seal,

and bids thee christen it

with thy dagger's point.

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