Tit.
Come, Marcus, come; kinsmen, this is the way.
Sir boy, now let me see your archery.
Look, ye draw home enough, and 'tis there straight;
Terras Astræa reliquit—be you remember'd, Marcus—
She's gone, she's fled—Sirs, take you to your tools.
You, cousins, shall go sound the ocean,
And cast your nets; haply, you may find her in the sea;
Yet there's as little justice as at land—
No, Publius and Sempronius; you must do it,
'Tis you must dig with mattock and with spade,
And pierce the inmost centre of the earth;
Then, when you come to Pluto's region,
I pray you, deliver this petition,
Tell him it is for justice, and for aid;
And that it comes from old Andronicus,
Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome.
Ah, Rome!—Well, well, I made thee miserable,
What time I threw the people's suffrages
On him, that thus doth tyrannize o'er me.
Go, get you gone, and, pray, be careful all,
And leave you not a man of war unsearch'd;
This wicked Emperor may have ship'd her hence,
And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice.

Mar.
Oh Publius, is not this a heavy case,
To see thy noble uncle thus distract?

Pub.
Therefore, my Lord, it highly us concerns,
By day and night t'attend him carefully,
And feed his humour kindly as we may,
'Till time beget some careful remedy.

Mar.
Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy:
Join with the Goths, and with revengeful war
Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude,
And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine.

Tit.
Publius, how now? how now, my masters,
What, have you met with her?

Pub.
No, my good Lord, but Pluto sends you word,
If you will have revenge from hell, you shall.
Marry, for justice, she is so employ'd,
He thinks, with Jove in heav'n, or somewhere else,
So that perforce you needs must stay a time.

Tit.
He doth me wrong to feed me with delays;
I'll dive into the burning lake below,
And pull her out of Acheron by the heels.
Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we,
No big-bon'd men, fram'd of the Cyclops' size,
But metal, Marcus, steel to th' very back;
^{7 note}Yet wrung with wrongs, more than our backs can bear.
And sith there is no justice in earth nor hell,
We will solicit heav'n, and move the Gods,
To send down justice for to wreak our wrongs:
Come, to this gear; you're a good archer, Marcus. [He gives them the arrows.
Ad Jovem, that's for you—here, ad Apollinem—
Ad Martem, that's for myself;
Here, boy, to Pallas—here, to Mercury—
To Saturn and to Cœlus—not to Saturnine—
You were as good to shoot against the wind.
To it, boy; Marcus—loose when I bid:
O' my word, I have written to effect,

There's not a God left unsolicited.

Mar.
Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the Court.
We will afflict the Emperor in his pride. [They shoot.

Tit.
Now, masters, draw; oh, well said, Lucius:
Good boy, in Virgo's lap, give it to Pallas.

Mar.
My Lord, I am a mile beyond the moon6Q0215;
Your letter is with Jupiter by this.

Tit.
Ha, Publius, Publius, what hast thou done?
See, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus' horns.

Mar.
This was the sport, my Lord; when Publius shot,
The bull being gall'd, gave Aries such a knock,
That down fell both the ram's horns in the Court,
And who should find them but the Emp'ress' villain?
She laugh'd, and told the Moor, he should not chuse
But give them to his master for a present.

Tit.
Why, there it goes. God give your Lordship joy! Enter a Clown with a basket and two pigeons.
News, news from heav'n; Marcus, the post is come.
Sirrah, what tidings? have you any letters?
Shall I have justice, what says Jupiter?

Clown.

Who? the gibbet-maker? he says, that he hath taken them down again, for the man must not be hang'd 'till the next week.

Tit.
Tut, what says Jupiter, I ask thee?

Clown.
Alas, Sir, I know not Jupiter,
I never drank with him in all my life.

Tit.
Why, villain, art not thou the carrier?

Clown.
Ay, of my pigeons, Sir, nothing else.

Tit.
Why, didst thou not come from heav'n?

Clown.

From heav'n? alas, Sir, I never came there. God forbid, I should be so bold to press into heav'n in my young days. Why, I am going with my pigeons to the tribunal plebs, to take up a matter of brawl betwixt my uncle and one of the Emperial's men.

Mar.

Why, Sir, that is as fit as can be to serve for

your oration, and let him deliver the pigeons to the Emperor from you

Tit.

Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the Emperor with a grace?

Clown.

Nay, truly, Sir, I could never say grace in all my life.

Tit.
Sirrah, come hither, make no more ado,
But give your pigeons to the Emperor.
By me thou shalt have justice at his hands.
Hold, hold—mean while, here's money for thy charges.
Give me a pen and ink.
Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver a supplication?

Clown.

Ay, Sir.

Tit.

Then, here is a supplication for you: and when you come to him, at the first approach you must kneel, then kiss his foot, then deliver up your pigeons, and then look for your reward. I'll be at hand, Sir; see you do it bravely.

Clown.
I warrant you, Sir. Let me alone.

Tit.
Sirrah, hast thou a knife? come, let me see it.
Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration,
For thou hast made it like an humble suppliant;
And when thou hast given it the Emperor,
Knock at my door, and tell me, what he says.

Clown.
God be with you, Sir, I will.

Tit.
Come, Marcus, let us go. Publius, follow me. [Exeunt.

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