&blquo;Tit.
&blquo;So, so: now sit: and look you eat no more,
&blquo;Than will preserve just so much strength in us
&blquo;As will revenge these bitter woes of ours.

&blquo;Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot;
&blquo;Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands,
&blquo;And cannot passionate out ten-fold grief
&blquo;With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine
&blquo;Is left to tyrannize upon my breast;
&blquo;And when my heart, all mad with misery,
&blquo;Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh,
&blquo;Then thus I thump it down.—
&blquo;Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs,
&blquo;When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating,
&blquo;Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still.
&blquo;Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans:
&blquo;Or get some little knife between thy teeth,
&blquo;And just against thy heart make thou a hole;
&blquo;That all the tears, that thy poor eyes let fall,
&blquo;May run into that sink, and, soaking in,
&blquo;Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.

&blquo;Mar.
&blquo;Fye, brother, fye! teach her not thus to lay
&blquo;Such violent hands upon her tender life* ^note.

&blquo;Tit.
&blquo;How now! has sorrow made thee doat already?
&blquo;Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I.
&blquo;What violent hands can she lay on her life?
&blquo;Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands;
&blquo;To bid Æneas tell the tale twice o'er,
&blquo;How Troy was burnt, and he made miserable?
&blquo;O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands;
&blquo;Lest we remember still, that we have none.—
&blquo;Fye, fye, how frantickly I square my talk!
&blquo;As if we should forget we had no hands,
&blquo;If Marcus did not name the word of hands!
&blquo;Come, let's fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this:—
&blquo;Here is no drink!—Hark, Marcus, what she says;—
&blquo;I can interpret all her martyr'd signs;—
&blquo;She says, she drinks no other drink but tears,
&blquo;Brew'd with her sorrow, mesh'd upon her cheeks:
&blquo;Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought;
&blquo;In thy dumb action will I be as perfect,

&blquo;As begging hermits in their holy prayers:
&blquo;Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven,
&blquo;Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign,
&blquo;But I, of these, will wrest an alphabet,
&blquo;And, by still practice, learn to know thy meaning* ^note.

&blquo;Boy.
&blquo;Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments;
&blquo;Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.

&blquo;Mar.
&blquo;Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov'd,
&blquo;Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness.

&blquo;Tit.
&blquo;Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears,
&blquo;And tears will quickly melt thy life away.—
&blquo;What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?

&blquo;Mar.
&blquo;At that that I have kill'd, my lord; a fly.

&blquo;Tit.
&blquo;Out on thee, murderer! thou kill'st my heart!
&blquo;Mine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny:
&blquo;A deed of death done on the innocent,
&blquo;Becomes not Titus' brother: Get thee gone;
&blquo;I see thou art not for my company.

&blquo;Mar.
&blquo;Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.

&blquo;Tit.
&blquo;But! How if that fly had a father, sir?
&blquo;How would he hang his slender gilded wings† ^note,
&blquo;And buz lamenting dolings in the air?
&blquo;Poor harmless fly!
&blquo;That, with his pretty buzzing melody,
&blquo;Came here to make us merry; and thou hast kill'd him.

&blquo;Mar.
&blquo;Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favour'd fly,
&blquo;Like to the empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him.

&blquo;Tit.
&blquo;O, O! Then pardon me for reprehending thee,
&blquo;For thou hast done a charitable deed.
&blquo;Give me thy knife, I will insult on him;
&blquo;Flattering myself, as if it were the Moor,
&blquo;Come hither purposely to poison me.—
&blquo;There's for thyself; and that's for Tamora:
&blquo;Ah, sirrah‡ ^note!—

&blquo;Why, yet, I think, we are not brought so low,
&blquo;But that, between us, we can kill a fly,
&blquo;That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.

&blquo;Mar.
&blquo;Alas! poor man! grief has so wrought on him,
&blquo;He takes false shadows for true substances.

&blquo;Tit.
&blquo;Come, take away.—Lavinia, go with me:
&blquo;I'll to thy closet; and go read with thee
&blquo;Sad stories, chanced in the times of old.—
&blquo;Come, boy, and go with me; thy sight is young.
&blquo;And thou shalt read when mine begins to dazzle† ^note.

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