Boy. ^note
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.

Marc.
Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear thine ^note aunt.

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

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

Marc.
What means my niece Lavinia by these signs?

Tit.
Fear her not ^note, Lucius: somewhat doth she mean:
See ^note, Lucius, see how much she makes of thee:
Somewhither ^note would she have thee go with her.
Ah, ^note boy, Cornelia never with more care
Read to her sons than she hath read ^note to thee
Sweet poetry and Tully's Orator ^note.

Marc. ^note
Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus?

Boy.
My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess,
Unless some fit or ^note frenzy do possess her:
For I have heard my grandsire say full oft,
Extremity of griefs ^note would make men mad;
And I have read that Hecuba of Troy
Ran mad for ^note 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 wil ^notel most willingly attend your ladyship.

Marc.
Lucius, I will. [Lavinia ^note turns over with her stumps the books which Lucius has let fall.

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 ^note choice of all my library,
And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens ^note
Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed.
Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus?

Marc.
I think she means that there were ^note more than one
Confederate in the fact; ay, more there was;
Or else to heaven she heaves them for ^note revenge.

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

Boy.
Grandsire, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphoses ^note:
My mother gave it me.

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

Tit.
Soft! so ^note busily she turns the leaves!
Help her: ^note
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.

Marc.
See, brother, see; note how she quotes the leaves.

Tit.
Lavinia, wert thou thus surprised, sweet girl,
Ravish'd and wrong'd, as Philomela was,
Forced in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods?
See, see!
Ay, such a place there is, where we did hunt ^note—
O, had we never, never hunted there!—
Pattern'd by that the poet here describes,
By nature made for murders and for rapes.

Marc.
O, why should nature build so foul a den,
Unless the gods delight in tragedies? ^note

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

Marc.
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:
This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst,
This after me. [He writes his name with his staff, and guides it with feet ^note and mouth. ^{note note}] I ^note have writ my name
Without the help of any hand at all.
Cursed be that ^note heart ^note that forced us to this ^note shift!
Write thou, good niece; and here display at last ^note
What God will have discovered ^note 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. ^note
O, do ye ^note read, my lord, what she hath writ ^note?
‘Stuprum. Chiron. Demetrius.’

Marc.
What, what! the lustful sons of Tamora
Performers of this heinous ^note, bloody deed?

Tit.
Magni Dominator ^note poli,
Tam lentus audis scelera? tam lentus vides?

Marc.
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 ^note.
My lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel;
And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope;
And swear with me, as, with the woful fere ^note
And father of that chaste dishonour'd ^note dame,
Lord Junius Brutus sware ^note for Lucrece' rape,
That we will prosecute by good advice ^note
Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths,
And see their blood, or ^note die with this reproach.

Tit.
'Tis sure enough, an ^note you knew how ^note.
But if you hunt ^note these bear-whelps, then beware:
The ^note dam will wake; and if she wind you once, ^note
She's with the lion deeply still in league,
And lulls him whilst she playeth ^note on her back,
And when he sleeps will she do what she list.
You are ^note a young huntsman, Marcus; let alone ^note;
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 Sibyl's leaves, abroad,
And where's your ^note 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 bondmen to the yoke of Rome.

Marc.
Ay, that's my boy! thy father hath full oft
For his ^note ungrateful country done the like.

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

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

Boy.
Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms ^note, grandsire.

Tit.
No, boy, not so; I'll teach thee ^note 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 ^note Titus, Lavinia, and Young Lucius.

Marc.
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 batter'd shield,
But yet ^note so just that he will not revenge.
Revenge, ye heavens, ^note for old Andronicus! [Exit. ^note

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