Cap.
Romans, make way: the good Andronicus,
Patron of virtue, Rome's best champion,
Successful in the battels that he fights,
With honour and with fortune is return'd,
From whence he circumscribed with his sword,
And brought to yoke the enemies of Rome.

Sound drums and trumpets, and then enter Mutius and Marcus: after them, two men bearing a coffin cover'd with black; then Quintus and Lucius. After them Titus Andronicus; and then Tamora, the Queen of Goths, Alarbus, Chiron and Demetrius, with Aaron the Moor, prisoners; soldiers, and other attendants. They set down the coffin, and Titus speaks.

Tit.
Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning weeds!
Loe, as the bark that hath discharg'd her freight,
Returns with precious lading to the bay,
From whence at first she weigh'd her anchorage,
Cometh Andronicus with laurel boughs,
To re-salute his country with his tears;
Tears of true joy, for his return to Rome.
Thou great defender of this Capitol,
Stand gracious to the rites 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 burial among 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 unburied yet,
To hover on the dreadful shore of Styx?
Make way to lay them by their brethren. [They open the tomb.
There greet in silence, as the dead are wont,
And sleep in peace, slain in your country's wars:
O sacred receptacle of my joys,
Sweet cell of virtue and nobility,
How many sons of mine hast thou in store,
That thou wilt never render to me more?

Luc.
Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths,
That we may hew his limbs, and on a pile,
Ad manes Fratrum sacrifice his flesh,
Before this earthly prison of their bones:
That so the shadows be not unappeas'd,
Nor we disturb'd with prodigies on earth.

Tit.
I give him you, the noblest that survives,
The eldest son of this distressed Queen.

Tam.
Stay Roman brethren, gracious conqueror,
Victorious Titus, rue the tears I shed,
A mother's tears in passion for her son:
And if thy sons were ever dear to thee,
O think my sons to be as dear to me.
Sufficeth not, that we are brought to Rome,
To beautifie thy triumphs, and return
Captive to thee, and to thy Roman yoak?
But must my sons be slaughter'd in the streets,
For valiant doings in their country's cause?
O! if to fight for King and common-weal
Were piety in thine, it is in these:
Andronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood.
Wilt thou draw near the nature of the Gods?
Draw near them then in being merciful;
Smeet mercy is nobility's true badge.
Thrice noble Titus, spare my first-born son.

Tit.
Patient your self, madam, and pardon me.
These are their brethren, whom you Goths behold
Alive and dead, and for their brethren slain
Religiously they ask a sacrifice;
To this your son is markt, and die he must,
T' appease their groaning shadows that are gone.

Luc.
Away with him, and make a fire straight.
And with our swords upon a pile of wood,

Let's hew his limbs, 'till they be clean consum'd. [Exeunt Mutius, Marcus, Quintus and Lucius with Alarbus.

Tam.
O cruel irreligious piety!

Chi.
Was ever Scythia half so barbarous?

Dem.
Oppose me, Scythia, to ambitious Rome.
Alarbus go to rest, and we survive
To tremble under Titus' threatning looks.
Then, madam, stand resolv'd, but hope withal,
The self-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,
(When Goths were Goths, and Tamora was Queen)
To quit her bloody wrongs upon her foes. Enter Mutius, Marcus, Quintus and Lucius.

Luc.
See, lord and father, how we have perform'd
Our Roman rites: Alarbus' limbs are lopt,
And intrails feed the sacrificing fire,
Whose smoke, like incense, doth perfume the sky.
Remaineth nought but to inter our brethren,
And with loud larums welcome them to Rome.

Tit.
Let it be so, and let Andronicus
Make this his latest farewel to their souls. [Then sound trumpets, and lay the coffins in the tomb.
In peace and honour rest you here, my sons,
Rome's readiest champions, repose you here,
Secure from worldly chances and mishaps:
Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells,
Here grow no damned grudges, here no storms,
No noise, but silence and eternal sleep:
In peace and honour rest you here, my sons!

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