Tit.
I am not bid to wait upon this bride.
Titus, when wert thou wont to walk alone,
Dishonour'd thus, and challenged of wrongs? Enter Marcus Andronicus, Lucius, Quintus, and Marcus.

Mar.
Oh Titus see, oh see what thou hast done!
In a bad quarrel slain a virtuous son.

Tit.
No, foolish tribune, no: no son of mine,
Nor thou, nor these confederates in the deed,
That hath dishonour'd all our family;
Unworthy brother, and unworthy sons.

Luc.
But let us give him burial as becomes,
Give Mutius burial with our bretheren.

Tit.
Traitors away, he rests not in this tomb;
This monument five hundred years hath stood,
Which I have sumptuously re-edified:
Here none but soldiers, and Rome's servitors
Repose in fame: none basely slain in brawls.
Bury him where you can, he comes not here.

Mar.
My lord, this is impiety in you,
My nephew Mutius' deeds do plead for him,
He must be buried with his bretheren. [Titus's sons speak.

Sons.
And shall, or him we will accompany.

Tit.
And shall? what villain was it spake that word? [Titus's son speaks.

Quin.
He that would vouch't in any place but here.

Tit.
What, would you bury him in my despight?

Mar.
No, noble Titus, but intreat of thee,
To pardon Mutius, and to bury him.

Tit.
Marcus, ev'n thou hast struck upon my crest,

And with these boys mine honour thou hast wounded.
My foes I do repute you every one,
So trouble me no more, but get you gone.

Luc.
He is not himself, let us withdraw.

Quin.
Not I, 'till Mutius' bones be buried. [The brother and the sons kneel.

Mar.
Brother, for in that name doth nature plead.

Quin.
Father, and in that name doth nature speak.

Tit.
Speak thou no more, if all the rest will speed.

Mar.
Renowned Titus, more than half my soul,

Luc.
Dear father, soul and substance of us all.

Mar.
Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter
His noble nephew here in virtue's nest,
That died in honour, and Lavinia's cause.
Thou art a Roman, be not barbarous.
The Greeks upon advice did bury Ajax
That slew himself; and wise Laertes' son
Did graciously plead for his funerals.
Let not young Mutius then, that was thy joy,
Be barr'd his entrance here.

Tit.
Rise, Marcus, rise—
The dismall'st day is this that e'er I saw,
To be dishonour'd by my sons in Rome:
Well, bury him, and bury me the next. [They put him in the tomb.

Luc.
There lye thy bones, sweet Mutius, with thy friends,
'Till we with trophies do adorn thy tomb. [They all kneel, and say,

No man shed tears for noble Mutius;
He lives in fame, that died in virtue's cause.

Mar.
My lord, to step out of these dreary dumps,
How comes it that the subtle Queen of Goths
Is of a sudden thus advanc'd in Rome?

Tit.
I know not, Marcus; but I know it is:
If by device or no, the heav'ns can tell:
Is she not then beholden to the man,
That brought her for this high good turn so far?

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