Boy.
Heelp, Grand-sire, 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 thy 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 Neece Lavinia by these Signs?

Tit.
Fear thou not, Lucius, somewhat doth she mean:
See Lucius, see, how much she makes of thee:
Some whither 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:
Can'st thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus?

Boy.
My Lord, I know not I, nor can I guess,
Unless some Fit or Frenzie do possess her:
For I have heard my Grand-sire say full oft,
Extremity of Grief 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 flie
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 make choice of all my Library,
And so beguile thy Sorrow, 'till the Heavens
Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed:
What Book?
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, to revenge.

Tit.
Lucius, what Book is that she tosses so?

Boy.
Grand-sire, '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! see how busily she turns the Leaves!
Help her: What would she find? Lavinia, shall I read?
This is the tragick 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.

Tit.
Lavinia, wert 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 sunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst,
That left the Camp to sin in Lucrece Bed?

Mar.
Sit down, sweet Neece; 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 canst,
This after me, when I have writ my Name,
Without the help of any Hand at all.
Curst be that Heart that forc'd us to this shift!
Write thou, good Niece, and here display at least,
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.
Oh 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.
Magni Dominator Poli,
Tam lentus audis scelera! tam lentus vides!

Mar.
Oh 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 woful Peer,
And Father of that chast dishonoured 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, and 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 whilst she playeth on her Back,
And when he sleeps will she do what she list.
You are 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 Sybils 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 Yoak of Rome.

Mar.
Ay, that's my Boy, thy Father hath full oft
For his ungrateful Country done the like.

Boy.
And, Uncle, so will I, and if I live.

Tit.
Come, go with me into mine Armory,
Lucius I'll fit thee, and withal, my Boy
Shall carry from me to the Empress 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, 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 compassion him?
Marcus attend him in his Extasie,
That hath more Scars of Sorrow in his Heart,
Than Foe-mens Marks upon his batter'd Shield,
But yet so just, that he will not revenge,
Revenge the Heavens for old Andronicus. [Exit. Enter Aaron, Chiron, and Demetrius at one Door: And at another Door young Lucius and another, with a bundle of Weapons, and Verses writ upon them.

Chi.
Demetrius, here's the Son of Lucius,
He hath some Message to deliver us.

Aar.
Ay, some mad Message from his mad Grandfather,

Boy.
My Lords, with all the humbleness I may,
I greet your Honours from Andronicus,
And pray the Roman Gods confound you both.

Dem.
Gramercy lovely Lucius, what's the News?

Boy.
For Villains mark'd with Rape. May it please you,
My Grandsire well advis'd hath sent by me,
The goodliest Weapons of his Armory,
To gratifie your honourable Youth,
The hope of Rome, for so he bad me say:
And so I do, and with his Gifts present
Your Lordships, when ever you have need,
You may be armed and appointed well,
And so I leave you both, like bloody Villains. [Exit.

Dem.
What's here, a Scrole, and written round about?
Let's see.
Integer vitæ scelerisque purus, non eget Mauri jaculis nec arcu.

Chi.
O 'tis a Verse in Horace, I know it well:
I read it in the Grammar long ago.

Aar.
Ay just, a Verse in Horace—right, you have it—
Now what a thing it is to be an Ass?
Here's no sound Jest, th' old Man hath found their Guilt,
And sends the Weapons wrap'd about with Lines,
That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick:
But were our witty Empress well a-foot,
She would applaud Andronicus conceit:
But let her rest, in her unrest a while.
And now, young Lords, was't not a happy Star
Led us to Rome, Strangers, and more than so,
Captives, to be advanced to this height?
It did me good, before the Palace Gate
To brave the Tribune in his Brother's hearing.

Dem.
But me more good, to see so great a Lord
Basely insinuate, and send us Gifts.

Aar.
Had he not reason, Lord Demetrius?
Did you not use his Daughter very friendly?

Dem.
I would we had a thousand Roman Dames
At such a Bay, by turn to serve our Lust.

Chi.
A charitable wish, and full of Love.

Aar.
Here lacks but your Mother for to say, Amen.

Chi.
And that would she for twenty thousand more.

Dem.
Come, let us go, and pray to all the Gods
For our beloved Mother in her Pains.

Aar.
Pray to the Devils, the Gods have given us over. Flourish.

Dem.
Why do the Emperor's Trumpets flourish thus?

Chi.
Belike for joy the Emperor hath a Son.

Dem.
Soft, who comes here? Enter Nurse with a Black-a-moor Child.

Nur.
Good morrow, Lords:
O tell me, did you see Aaron the Moor?

Aar.
Well, more or less, or ne'er a whit at all,
Here Aaron is, and what with Aaron now?

Nur.
O gentle Aaron, we are all undone.
Now help, or wo betide thee evermore.

Aar.
Why, what a Caterwalling dost thou keep?
What dost thou wrap and fumble in thine Arms?

Nur.
O that which I would hide from Heav'ns Eye,
Our Empress shame, and stately Rome's disgrace,
She is delivered, Lords, she is delivered.

Aar.
To whom?

Nur.
I mean, she is brought to bed.

Aar.
Well, God give her good rest.
What hath he sent her?

Nur.
A Devil.

Aar.
Why then she is the Devil's Dam: a joyful Issue.

Nur.
A joyless, dismal, black and sorrowful Issue,
Here is the Babe, as loathsome as a Toad,
Amongst the fairest Breeders of our Clime,
The Empress sends it thee, thy Stamp, thy Seal,
And bids thee Christen it with thy Dagger's point.

Aar.
Out, you Whore, is Black so base a hue?
Sweet Blowse, you are a beauteous Bossom sure.

Dem.
Villain, what hast thou done?

Aar.
That which thou canst not undo.

Chi.
Thou hast undone our Mother.

Dem.
And therein, hellish Dog, thou hast undone—
Wo to her Chance, and damn'd her loathed Choice,
Accurs'd the Off-spring of so foul a Fiend.

Chi.
It shall not live.

Aar.
It shall not die.

Nur.
Aaron it must, the Mother wills it so.

Aar.
What, must it, Nurse? Then let no Man but I
Do Execution on my Flesh and Blood.

Dem.
I'll broach the Tadpole on my Rapiers point:
Nurse, give it me, my Sword shall soon dispatch it.

Aar.
Sooner this Sword shall plough thy Bowels up.
Stay, murtherous Villains, will you kill your Brother?
Now by the burning Tapers of the Sky,
That shone so brightly when this Boy was got,
He dies upon my Cymitar's sharp point,
That touches this my first-born Son and Heir.
I tell you, Younglings, not Enceladus
With all his threatning Band of Typhon's Brood,
Nor great Alcides, nor the God of War,
Shall seize this Prey out of his Father's Hands:
What, what, ye sanguine shallow-hearted Boys,
Ye white-limb'd Walls, ye Alehouse painted Signs,
Coal-black is better than another hue,
In that it scorns to bear another hue:
For all the Water in the Ocean
Can never turn the Swan's black Legs to white,
Although she lave them hourly in the Flood.
Tell the Emperess from me, I am of Age
To keep mine own, excuse it how she can.

Dem.
Wilt thou betray thy noble Mistress thus?

Aar.
My Mistress is my Mistress; this, my self;
The Vigour, and the Picture of my Youth:
This, before all the World do I prefer;
This, maugre all the World, will I keep safe,
Or some of you shall smoke for it in Rome.

Dem.
By this our Mother is for ever sham'd.

Chi.
Rome will despise her for this foul Escape.

Nur.
The Emperor in his rage will doom her Death.

Chi.
I blush to think upon this Ignominy.

Aar.
Why there's the privilege your Beauty bears:
Fie treacherous hue, that will betary with blushing
The close Enacts and Counsels of the Heart:
Here's a young Lad fram'd of another leer,
Look how the black Slave smiles upon the Father;
As who should say, old Lad I am thine own.
He is your Brother, Lords; sensibly fed
Of that self-blood that first gave life to you,
And from that Womb where you imprisoned were,
He is infranchised and come to light:
Nay, he is your Brother by the surer side,
Although my Seal be stamped on his Face.

Nur.
Aaron, what shall I say unto the Empress?

Dem.
Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be done,
And we will all subscribe to thy advice:
Save thou the Child, so we may all be safe.

Aar.
Then sit we down, and let us all consult.
My Son and I will have the wind of you:
Keep there, now talk at pleasure of your safety. [They sit on the Ground.

Dem.
How many Women saw this Child of his?

Aar.
Why so, brave Lords, when we all join in league,
I am a Lamb; but if you brave the Moor,
The chased Boar, the Mountain Lioness,
The Ocean swells not so as Aaron storms:
But say again, how many saw the Child?

Nur.
Cornelia the Midwife, and my self.
And none else but the delivered Empress.

Aar.
The Empress, the Midwife, and your self—
Two may keep Counsel, when the third's away:
Go to the Empress, tell her, this I said— [He kills her.
Week, week, so cries a Pig prepar'd to th'Spit.

Dem.
What mean'st thou, Aaron?
Wherefore didst thou this?

Aar.
O Lord, Sir, 'tis a deed of Policy:
Shall she live to betray this Guilt of ours?
A long-tongu'd babling Gossip? No, Lords, no.
And now be it known to you my full intent:
Not far, one Muliteus lives, my Country-man,
His Wife but yesternight was brought to Bed,
His Child is like to her, fair as you are:
Go pack with him, and give the Mother Gold,
And tell them both the circumstance of all,
And how by this their Child shall be advanc'd,
And be received for the Emperor's Heir,
And substituted in the place of mine,
To calm this Tempest whirling in the Court;
And let the Emperor dandle him for his own.
Hark ye, Lords, ye see I have given her Physick,
And you must needs bestow her Funeral,
The Fields are near, and you are gallant Grooms:
This done, see that you take no longer Days,
But send the Midwife presently to me.

The Midwife and the Nurse well made away,
Then let the Ladies tattle what they please.

Chi.
Aaron, I see thou wilt not trust the Air with Secrets.

Dem.
For this care of Tamora,
Her self and hers are highly bound to thee. [Exeunt.

Aar.
Now to the Goths, as swift as Swallow flies,
There to dispose this Treasure in mine Arms,
And secretly to greet the Empress Friends.
Come on, you thick-lip'd Slave, I'll bear you hence,
For it is you that puts us to our shifts:
I'll make you feed on Berries, and on Roots,
And feed on Curds, and Whey, and suck the Goat,
And Cabin in a Cave, and bring you up
To be a Warrior, and command a Camp. [Exit. Enter Titus, old Marcus, young Lucius, and other Gentlemen with Bows, and Titus bears the Arrows with Letters on the end of them.

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 remembred, 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 Center of the Earth:
Then when you come to Pluto's Region,
I pray you to deliver him 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 Peoples 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.
O, Publius, is not this a heavy case,
To see thy noble Unkle 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 imploy'd,
He thinks with Jove in Heav'n, or some where else;
So that perforce you must needs 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 the very Back,
Yet wrung with wrongs more than our Backs can bear.
And sith there's no Justice in Earth nor Hell,
We will sollicit Heav'n, and move the Gods,
To send down Justice for to wreak our wrongs:
Come to this gear, you are a good Archer, Marcus. [He gives them the Arrows.
Ad Jovem, that's for you—here ad Apollonem—
Ad Martem, that's for my self;
Here Boy, to Pallas—here to Mercury—
To Cœlus and to Saturn—not to Saturnine—
You were as good to shoot against the Wind.
To it, Boy, Marcus—loose when I bid:
Of my word, I have written to effect,
There's not a God left unsollicited.

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 Pallas.

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

Tit.
Ha, ha, Publius, Publius, what hast thou done?
See, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus's 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 Rams Horns in the Court,
And who should find them but the Empress, 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 Heaven;
Marcus, the Post is come.
Sirrah, what Tydings? have you any Letters?
Shall I have Justice, what says Jupiter?

Clow.

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?

Clow.
Alas, Sir, I know not Jupiter,
I never drank with him in all my Life.

Tit.
Why Villain, art not thou the Carrier?

Clow.
Ay, of my Pigeons, Sir, nothing else.

Tit.
Why, didst thou not come from Heaven?

Clow.
From Heaven? Alas, Sir, I never came there.

God forbid I should be so bold to press into Heaven 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 Emperials 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?

Clow.

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 Mony for thy Charges.

Give me a Pen and Ink.
Sirrah, can you with a Grace deliver a Supplication?

Clow.

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.

Clow.

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.

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

Tit.
Come, Marcus, let us go, Publius follow me. [Exeunt. Enter Emperor and Empress, and her two Sons; the Emperor brings the Arrows in his Hand that Titus shot.

Sat.
Why Lords,
What Wrongs are these? was ever seen
An Emperor of Rome thus over-born,
Troubled, confronted thus, and for the extent
Of equal Justice, us'd in such Contempt?
My Lords, you know, as do the mightful Gods,
(However the disturbers of our Peace
Buz in the Peoples Ears) there nought hath past,
But even with Law against the wilful Sons
Of old Andronicus. And what and if
His Sorrows have so over-whelm'd his Wits,
Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks,
His fits, his frensie, and his bitterness?
And now he writes to Heaven for his redress.
See, here's to Jove, and this to Mercury,
This to Apollo, this to the God of War:
Sweet Scrowls to fly about the Streets of Rome.
What's this but Libelling against the Senate,
And blazening our Injustice every where?
A goodly humour, is it not, my Lords?
As who would say, in Rome no Justice were.
But if I live, his feigned Extasies
Shall be no shelter to these Outrages:

But he and his shall know, that Justice lives
In Saturninus health, whom, if she sleep,
He'll so awake, as she in fury shall
Cut off the proudest Conspirator that lives.

Tam.
My gracious Lord, my lovely Saturnine,
Lord of my Life, Commander of my Thoughts,
Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus Age,
Th' effects of Sorrow for his valiant Sons,
Whose loss hath pierc'd him deep, and scarr'd his Heart;
And rather comfort his distressed plight,
Than prosecute the meanest or the best,
For these Contempts. Why thus it shall become
High witted Tamora to glose with all:
But Titus, I have touch'd thee to the quick,
Thy Life-blood on't: If Aaron now be wise,
Then is all safe, the Anchor's in the Port. Enter Clown.
How now, good Fellow, wouldst thou speak with us?

Clow.
Yea forsooth, and your Mistership be Emperial.

Tam.
Empress I am, but yonder sits the Emperor.

Clow.
'Tis he: God and St. Stephen give you good-e'en,
I have brought you a Letter and a couple Pigeons here. [He reads the Letter.

Sat.

Go, take him away, and hang him presently.

Clow.

How much Mony must I have?

Tam.

Come, Sirrah, thou must be hang'd.

Clow.

Hang'd by'r Lady, then I have brought up a Neck to a fair end.

Sat.
Despightful and intolerable Wrongs,
Shall I endure this monstrous Villany?
I know from whence this same Device proceeds:
May this be born? As if his Traiterous Sons,
That dy'd by Law for Murther of our Brother,
Have by my means been butcher'd wrongfully?
Go, drag the Villain hither by the Hair,
Nor Age nor Honour shall shape Privilege.
For this proud mock I'll be thy Slaughter-man;
Sly frantick Wretch, that holp'st to make me great,
In hope thy self should govern Rome and me.

Enter Nuntius Æmilius.

Sat.
What News with thee, Æmilius?

Æmil.
Arm, my Lords, Rome never had more cause;
The Goths have gather'd head, and with a Power
Of high resolv'd Men, bent to the spoil,
They hither march amain, under the Conduct
Of Lucius, Son to old Andronicus:
Who threats in course of his revenge to do
As much as ever Coriolanus did.

Sat.
Is warlike Lucius General of the Goths?
These Tydings nip me, and I hang the Head
As Flowers with Frost, or Grass beat down with Storms.
Ay, now begin our Sorrows to approach,
'Tis he the Common People love so much,
My self hath often heard them say,
(When I have walked like a private Man)
That Lucius Banishment was wrongfully,
And they have wish'd that Lucius were their Emperor.

Tam.
Why should you fear? Is not our City strong?

Sat.
Ay, but the Citizens favour Lucius,
And will revolt from me, to succour him.

Tam.
King, be thy Thoughts imperious like thy Name.
Is the Sun dim'd, that Gnats do fly in it?
The Eagle suffers little Birds to sing,
And is not careful what they mean thereby,
Knowing that with the Shadow of his Wings,
He can at pleasure stint their melody;
Even so may'st thou the giddy Men of Rome.
Then cheer thy Spirit, for know, thou Emperor,
I will enchant the old Andronicus,
With Words more sweet, and yet more dangerous
Than baits to Fish, or Honey-stalks to Sheep,
When as the one is wounded with the bait,
The other rotted with delicious Food.

Sat.
But he will not intreat his Son for us.

Tam.
If Tamora intreat him, then he will,
For I can smooth, and fill his aged Ear
With golden Promises, that were his Heart
Almost impregnable, his old Ears deaf,
Yet should both Ear and Heart obey my Tongue.

Go thou before as our Ambassador, [To Æmilius.
Say, that the Emperor requests a Parley
Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting.

Sat.
Æmilius, do this Message honourably,
And if he stand on Hostage for his safety,
Bid him demand what Pledge will please him best.

Æmil.
Your bidding shall I do effectually. [Exit.

Tam.
Now will I to that old Andronicus,
And temper him with all the Art I have,
To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths.
And now, sweet Emperor, be blith again,
And bury all thy Fear in my Devices.

Sat.
Then go successfully and plead for me. [Exit.