Capt.
Romans make way, the good Andronicus,
Patron of Virtue, Romes best Champion:
Successfull in the Battles that he fights,
With Honour and with Fortune is return'd,
From where he circumscribed with his Sword,
And brought to Yoak the Enemies of Rome.

Sound of Drums and Trumpets, then Enter two of Titus's Sons, and then a dead Son brought in Funeral Pomp, then two other Sons, all bearing his Armour, then Titus Andronicus, and then Tamora Queen of Goths and her two Sons, Chiron and Demetrius, with Aron the Moor and others: they stop; the Armour is laid by the dead Son in order.

Titus.
Hail Rome! Victorious in thy mourning weeds,
As doth the Bark that hath discharg'd his fraught,
Return with precious Lading to the Bay,
From whence at first she weigh'd her Anchorage;
Cometh Andronicus, Bound with Lawrell boughs,
To re-salute his Country with his Tears,
Tears of true Joy for his return to Rome.
Thou great Defender of this Capitoll,
Stand gracious to the rights that we intend.
Romans, of Five and twenty valiant Sons,
Half of the number that King Priam had,
Behold the poor remains alive and Dead:
These that survive, let Rome reward with Love,
These that I bring unto their Latest Home,
With Buriall amongst their Ancestors.
Here Goths have given me leave to sheath my Sword,
Titus unkind, and careless of thine own,
Why Suffer'st thou thy Sons unbury'd yet,
To hover on the Dreadfull shoar of Styx,
Make way to Lay them with their Brethren. The Temple opens, A Glorious Tomb is discover'd where they place the Dead Corps, Warlike Musick all the while Sounding.
There Greet in Silence as the Dead are wont,
And Sleep in Peace, Slain in your Countrys Wars.

Lucius.
Now Give the Proudest Pris'ner of the Goths,
That we may hew his Limbs, and on a Pile
Sacrifice his flesh to our dear Brothers Ghost,
That so his Shadow be not unappeas'd,
No we disturb'd with Prodigies on Earth.

Titus.
I give him you the Noblest that Survives,
The Eldest Son of this distressed Queen.

Tamora.
Stay Roman Brethren, Glorious Conqueror,
Victorious Titus, Behold the Tears I shed:
A Mothers Tears in Passion for her Son,
Is't not sufficient we are brought to Rome,

To Beautify thy Triumphs, and return
Captive to thee, and to thy Roman Yoke,
But must my Sons be Slaughter'd in the Streets,
For Valiant doings in their Countrys Cause?
If to fight for King and Common-Wealth,
Were piety in thine, it is in these.
Andronicus stain not thy Tomb with Blood;
Will't thou draw near the Nature of the gods?
Draw near them then in being Mercifull:
Noble Titus spare my first-born Son.

Titus.
My Son, whom Chance of War your Captive made,
Was Born in Glory too, and for great deeds,
Adopted was the Eldest Son of Fame;
Yet fell a Victim to Plebean Rage.

Lucius.
Deaf like the Gods when Thunder fills the Air,
Were you to all our Suppliant Romans then;
Unmov'd beheld him made a Sacrifice
T'appease your Angry Gods; what Gods are they
Are pleas'd with Humane Blood and Cruelty?

Titus.
Then did his sorrowfull Brethren here,
These other Sons of mine, from me Exact
A Vow, This was the Tenor which it bore,
“If any of the Cruel Tamora's Race
“Should fall in Roman hands, him I wou'd give
“To their Revenging Piety.—To this
Your Eldest Son is doom'd, and dye he must,
Not to revenge their Bloods we now bring home,
Or theirs who formerly were slain in Arms:
For show me now those Valiant Fighting Goths,
I'le kiss their Noble hands that gave the Wounds,
'Cause bravely they perform'd. This was no Cause
But a Sons groaning Shadow to appease,
By Priestly Butchers Murder'd on your Altars.

Mart.
Remembrance whetts our rage, away with him,
On yond Erected Pile kindle a Fire,
And on it strow his separated Limbs,
To be Consum'd in the devouring Flames.

Quint.
Learn Goths from hence, and after keep't in mind
That Cruelty is not the Worship of the Gods.

Tam.
Intention made it Piety in us:
But in you this Act is Cruelty. Sons of Titus with Alarbus their Prisoner Exeunt.

Chir.
Was ever Cythia half so Barbarous?

Dem.
Oppose not Cythia to Ambitious Rome,
Alarbus goes to rest and we survive Titus goes up to the Tomb.

To tremble under Titus threatning Look.

Aron.
To tremble said you? did you say to tremble?
No, Madam stand resolv'd, but hope withall,
That the same Gods that Arm'd the Queen of Troy
With opportunity of Sharp revenge
Upon the Thracian Tyrant in his Tent,
May favour Tamora the Queen of Goths
With like Successfull minutes, to requite
These Bloody wrongs and Roman Injuries. Enter Lavinia, Attendants.

Lavin.
In Peace and Honour Live Lord Titus Long,
My Noble Lord and Father Live in Fame.
Here at this Tomb my Tributary Tears
I render for my Brothers Obsequies,
And at your feet I kneel with Tears of joy,
Shed on the Earth, for your return to Rome.
O bless me here with that Victorious hand
Whose Fortune Romes best Citizens applaud.

Titus.
Kind Rome, that has thus Lovingly restor'd
The Cordial of my Age to glad my heart!
Lavinia Live, out-live thy Fathers days,
And Fames Eternal date for Virtues praise. Re-Enter the Sons of Titus.
See injur'd Romans and amazed Goths
How Swift revenge has been to Execute;
The Fire is kindled, Alarbus Intrails feed the flame,
Now rest thou manes of our Murder'd Brother.
Naught now remains but that we Close
The Monument, and with Wars Loud Alarums
Take our Leave.

Titus.
Let it be so, and let Andronicus
Make this his Latest farewell to their Souls. Sound Drums & Trumpets, and Lay the Coffin in the Tomb.
In Peace and Honour rest you here my Sons,
Romes Valiant Champions, repose you here in rest,
Secure from Worldly Chances and Mishaps:
Here Lurks no Treason, here no Envy Swells,
Here grow no damned Drugs, here are no Storms,
No noise, but silence and Eternal Sleep.
In Peace and Honour rest you here my Sons. The Monument Closes.

Enter Marcus.

Marcus.
Long Live Lord Titus my beloved Brother.

Titus.
Thanks worthy Tribune, Noble Brother Marcus.

Marcus.
Welcome dear Nephews from Successfull Wars,
You that Survive and you that Sleep in Fame;
Your Fortunes are in all Glorious alike,
That in your Countrys Service drew your Swords,
But safer Triumph is this Funeral Pomp,
That hath aspir'd to Solons happiness,
And Triumphs over Chance in Honours Bed.
Now Noble Titus Gratify the Eyes of Rome,
With sight of thee and of thy Valiant Sons.
See how in Crowds they press to Honour thee.

Titus.
Tho' a Conqueror, I am still my Countrys Servant,
And Romes Vassal. [Exeunt. [The Scene Closes.

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