Tit.
Come, come, Lavinia; look, thy foes are bound.
—Sirs, stop their mouths, let them not speak to me,
But let them hear what fearful words I utter.
Oh, villains, Chiron and Demetrius!
Here stands the spring whom you have stain'd with mud,
This goodly summer with your winter mixt,
You kill'd her husband, and for that vile fault
Two of her brothers were condemn'd to death;
My hand cut off, and made a merry jest;
Both her sweet hands, her tongue, and that more dear
Than hands or tongue, her spotless Chastity,
Inhuman traitors, you constrain'd and forc'd.
What would ye say, if I should let you speak?
Villains!—for shame, you could not beg for grace.
Hark, wretches, how I mean to martyr you.
This one hand yet is left to cut your throats,
Whilst that Lavinia 'twixt her stumps doth hold
The bason, that receives your guilty blood.
You know, your mother means to feast with me,
And calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad.
Hark, villains, I will grind your bones to dust,
And with your blood and it I'll make a paste;

^{3 note}And of the paste a coffin will I rear,
And make two pasties of your shameful heads;
And bid that strumpet, your unhallow'd dam,
Like to the earth, swallow her own increase.
This is the feast that I have bid her to,
And this the banquet she shall surfeit on;
For worse than Philomel you us'd my daughter,
And worse than Procne I will be reveng'd.
And now prepare your throats. Lavinia, come,
Receive the blood; and, when that they are dead,
Let me go grind their bones to powder small,
And with this hateful liquor temper it;
And in that paste let their vile heads be bak'd.
Come, come, be every one officious
To make this banquet, which I wish might prove
More stern and bloody than the Centaur's feast. [He cuts their throats.
So, now bring them in, for I'll play the cook,
And see them ready 'gainst the mother comes. [Exeunt. Enter Lucius, Marcus, and Goths with Aaron Prisoner.

Luc.
Uncle Marcus, since it is my father's mind
That I repair to Rome, I am content.

Goth.
And ours with thine, befall what fortune will.

Luc.
Good uncle, take you in this barbarous Moor,
This ravenous tiger, this accursed devil;
Let him receive no sustenance, fetter him,
'Till he be brought unto the Emp'ror's face,
For testimony of these foul proceedings;
And see, the ambush of our friends be strong;
I fear, the Emperor means no good to us.

Aar.
Some devil whisper curses in my ear,

And prompt me, that my tongue may utter forth
The venomous malice of my swelling heart!

Luc.
Away, inhuman dog, unhallow'd slave. [Exeunt Goths with Aaron.
Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in. [Flourish.
The trumpets shew, the Emperor is at hand.

Previous section

Next section