Boy.
Help, grandsire, help! my aunt Lavinia
Follows me every where, I know not why:—
Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes!
Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean.

Mar.
Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine aunt.

Tit.
She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm.

Boy.
Ay, when my father was in Rome, she did.

Mar.
What means my niece Lavinia by these signs?

Tit.
Fear her not, Lucius:—Somewhat doth she mean:—
See, Lucius, see, how much she makes of thee:

Somewhither would she have thee go with her.
Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care
Read to her sons, than she hath read to thee,
Sweet poetry, and Tully's oratory^{8 note}.
Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus?

Boy.
My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,
Unless some fit of phrenzy do possess her:
For I have heard my grandsire say full oft,
Extremity of griefs would make men mad;
And I have read, that Hecuba of Troy
Ran mad through sorrow; That made me to fear;
Although, my lord, I know, my noble aunt
Loves me as dear as e'er my mother did,
And would not, but in fury, fright my youth:
Which made me down to throw my books, and fly;
Causeless, perhaps: But pardon me, sweet aunt:
And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go,
I will most willingly attend your ladyship.

Mar.
Lucius, I will.

Tit.
How now, Lavinia?—Marcus, what means this?
Some book there is that she desires to see:—
Which is it, girl, of these? Open them, boy.—
But thou art deeper read, and better skill'd;
Come, and take choice of all my library,
And so beguile thy sorrow, 'till the heavens
Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed.—
Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus?

Mar.
I think, she means, that there was more than one
Confederate in the fact;—Ay, more there was:—
Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge.

Tit.
Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so?

Boy.
Grandsire, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphosis;
My mother gave it me.

Mar.
For love of her that's gone,
Perhaps she cull'd it from among the rest.

Tit.
Soft! soft, how busily 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;
And rape, I fear, was root of thine annoy.

Mar.
See, brother see; note, how she quotes the leaves^{9 note}.

Tit.
Lavinia, were't thou thus surpriz'd, sweet girl,
Ravish'd, and wrong'd, as Philomela was,
Forc'd in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods?—
See, see!—
Ay, such a place there is, where we did hunt,
(O, had we never, never, hunted there!)
Pattern'd by that the poet here describes,
By nature made for murders, and for rapes.

Mar.
O, why should nature build so foul a den,
Unless the gods delight in tragedies!

Tit.
Give signs, sweet girl,—for here are none but friends,—
What Roman lord it was durst do the deed:
Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst,
That left the camp to sin in Lucrece' bed?

Mar.
Sit down, sweet niece;—brother, sit down by me.—
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury,
Inspire me, that I may this treason find!—
My lord, look here;—look here, Lavinia: [He writes his name with his staff, and guides it with his feet and mouth.
This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou can'st,

This after me, when I have writ my name
Without the help of any hand at all.
Curs'd be that heart, that forc'd us to this shift!—
Write thou, good niece; and here display at last,
What God will have discover'd for revenge:
Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain,
That we may know the traitors, and the truth! [She takes the staff in her mouth, and guides it with her stumps, and writes.

Tit.
O, do you read, my lord, what she hath writ?
Stuprum—Chiron—Demetrius.

Mar.
What, what!—the lustful sons of Tamora
Performers of this hateful bloody deed?

Tit.
—Magne Dominator Poli^{1 note},
Tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides?

Mar.
O, calm thee, gentle lord! although, I know,
There is enough written upon this earth,
To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts,
And arm the minds of infants to exclaims.
My lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel;
And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope;
And swear with me,—as with the woeful feere^{2 note}

And father, of that chaste dishonour'd dame,
Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece' rape,—
That we will prosecute, by good advice,
Mortal revenge upon these traiterous Goths,
And see their blood, or die with this reproach.

Tit.
'Tis sure enough, an you knew how.
But if you hurt these bear-whelps, then beware:
The dam will wake; and, if she wind you once,
She's with the lion deeply still in league,
And lulls him while she playeth on her back,
And, when he sleeps, will she do what she list.
You're a young huntsman, Marcus; let it alone;
And, come, I will go get a leaf of brass,
And with a gad of steel will write these words,
And lay it by: the angry northern wind

Will blow these sands, like Sybil's leaves, abroad,
And where's your lesson then?—Boy, what say you?

Boy.
I say, my lord, that if I were a man,
Their mother's bed-chamber should not be safe
For these bad bond-men to the yoke of Rome.

Mar.
Ay, that's my boy! thy father hath full oft
For this ungrateful country done the like.

Boy.
And, uncle, so will I, an if I live.

Tit.
Come, go with me into my armoury;
Lucius, I'll fit thee; and withal, my boy
Shall carry from me to the emperess' sons
Presents, that I intend to send them both:
Come, come; thou'lt do my message, wilt thou not?

Boy.
Ay, with my dagger in their bosom, grandsire.

Tit.
No, no, boy, not so; I'll teach thee another course.
Lavinia, come:—Marcus, look to my house;
Lucius and I'll go brave it at the court;
Ay, marry, will we, sir; and we'll be waited on. [Exeunt.

Mar.
O heavens, can you hear a good man groan,
And not relent, or not compassionate him?
Marcus, attend him in his ecstasy;
That hath more scars of sorrow in his heart,
Than foe-men's marks upon his batter'd shield:
But yet so just, that he will not revenge:—
^{3 note}

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