Tit.
Come, Marcus, come;—Kinsmen, this is the way:—
Sir boy, now ^note 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;
Hapily ^note, 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 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 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 unsearcht;
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 uncle thus distract.

1. G.
Therefore, my lord ^note, it highly us concerns,
By day and night to 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? Well;
What, have you met with her?

1. G.
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 heaven, or somewhere else,
So that ^note 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 ^note 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 ^note can bear:—
And. sith there is no justice in earth nor hell;
We will solicit heaven; and move the gods,
To send down justice for to wreak our wrongs:
Come, to this gear.—You're a good archer, Marcus; [pulling out his Arrows.

Ad Jovem, that's &dagger2; for you:—Here, &dagger2; ad Apollinem ^note:—
Ad Martem,—O, that's for myself:—
Here, &dagger2; boy, to Pallas:—Here, &dagger2; to Mercury:—
To Saturn, &dagger2; Caius ^note;14Q1194 not to Saturnine,
You were as good to shoot against the wind.—
To it, my boys.—Marcus, loose when I bid.—
Sirs, o' 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.

Tit.
Now, masters, draw.—[They shoot.] O, well said, Lucius!
Good boy, in Virgo's lap, she'll give it Pallas!

Mar.
My lord, I am a ^note mile beyond the moon;
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 empress' villain:
She laugh'd, and told the Moor, he should not choose
But give them to his master for a present.

Tit.
Why, there it goes: God give your lordship joy! Enter Clown, with a Basket and two Pigeons.
News, news from heaven! Marcus, the post is come.—
Sirrah, what tidings? have you any letters?
Shall I have justice? what says Jupiter?

Clo.

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

Tit.

But what ^note says Jupiter, I ask thee?

Clo.

Alas, sir, I know not Jupiter; I never drank

with him in all my life.

Tit.

Why, villain, art not thou the carrier?

Clo.

Ay, of my pigeons, sir; nothing else.

Tit.

Why, did'st not thou ^note come from heaven?

Clo.

From heaven? alas, sir, I never came there: God forbid, I should be so bold to press to 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 emperial's men.

Mar.

Why, sir, this 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?

Clo.

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 &dagger2; money for thy charges.—
Give me a ^note pen and ink.—
Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver a supplication?

Clo.

Ay, sir.

Tit.

Then here &dagger2; 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.

Clo.

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.

Clo.
God be with you, sir; I will.

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

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